Clad in Black
by CasaHouse
Summary: A group of mercenaries are hired to hold an old fortress against an insurmountable enemy, and their leader is not whom he seems... Can they hold out for long enough?
1. Foreword

I'm back!

It's been a long time, but I'm back.

So here's my disclaimer. This is an original piece of fiction. I own this. That being said, it DOES serve as a prequel to a piece of fanfiction I wrote in the past, and will be rewriting and finishing in the near future. This piece involves characters that exist in my previous story, it simply takes place before they crossed over into that particular fandom. If this is an issue with the content rules of the site, let me know, and I will happily take it down and repost it as a chapter in the relevant story when the narrative fits. I just feel it is strong enough to stand as its own story, so am posting it as such.

My previous story is called "The Code." This story is a thorough telling of events that were briefly touched on in chapter 35 of said story. You can find it through my profile. A couple characters and abilities here won't really make sense unless you read it. Explanations just felt shoehorned in when I tried to include them, so they ended up on the cutting room floor.

* * *

This would be set somewhere in the years before my first fic. And in advance, this is not really a happy story.


	2. Clad in Black

CLAD IN BLACK

The man who called himself Zeb gently increased his pressure on the reins, slowing Bertellus to a trot. The horse was massive, easily two hands taller at the shoulder than any other horse in the column that approached the ruin. His brown coat had a healthy sheen, and his eyes flitted left and right, too edgy for such a mighty creature. His previous owner had been too keen on the brand and the lash.

"Easy, buddy." His rider soothed, leaning forward and patting the side of the horse's neck. "We're here."

The rider was similarly massive, barrel-chested with broad shoulders and heavily muscled arms. He cast his eyes across the fortress, illuminated starkly in the morning light. If it had a name, that name was lost to the ages. He scratched the short beard that hid his features as he regarded the ancient stones. The fortress had stood for centuries, and it hadn't aged well. The wall was mossy and crumbling in a few places. A single tower jutted from the outer bastion, casting its shadow toward the keep. The keep itself was low-set, merging back into the stone of the mountainside. The mountain behind the fortress had what looked like pockmarks some twenty feet above the keep. _Windows_, he realized. The inner workings of the keep extended into the mountain itself.

The whole building looked somehow… belligerent. Old, scarred, and forgotten.

He liked it immediately, feeling a strange kinship to the gnarled stonework. His hand absently found the crumpled letter inside his chest pocket, and he opened it, scanning the words again.

_Zeb,_

_Take whatever wealth is in the fortress, it's yours. But hold it. Hold the fortress. Keep the Sharn troops from making a foothold there. It has the only clean well in the area. We cannot let the Templars take it. If it comes down to it, buy us whatever time you can. The Templars will be there in a month. That gives you some time to prepare. Do this thing for me, and I will give you everything I have._

_-Roane_

Roane was a good man, all things considered. He was honorable, and seemed to have his priorities straight. If rumors were to be believed, he fought to defend a wife and two sons in one of the Free Cities.

_The Free Cities_. He thought, jaded. _There's a novel concept_.

Rebellion was nothing new in Sharn. The church ruled with an iron fist, and any who even questioned their teachings were usually put to the flame or the sword. Rebellions in the past were all dealt with swiftly, the Santiarchs and Chaplains of Sharn's 'One True Faith' acting with startling speed to crush any and all sympathy for the 'heretic unbelievers.'

Never before had three entire city-states declared independence at once. It was unprecedented. And here they were, right in the middle of it. He'd told his company that they would make a fortune selling their swords to the highest bidder in the narrow tract of land between the Cities and Sharn itself. The truth was much simpler.

He hated the church. And the church hated him right back.

They'd hunted him since he could remember. His original crimes had been forgotten in the face of all the blasphemies attached to his name. He couldn't even remember what had started it. But every time he slipped the noose or evaded capture, every time they hired assassins to kill him, he learned. He'd vowed to himself early on that he'd learn as much as possible every time someone made an attempt on his life.

So he got stronger. His senses got sharper, and his swordsmanship became something to be feared. Each attempt made him more resourceful, and each failure tacked some new and horrible crime to his name. Their antagonism had forged him into one of the deadliest swordsmen alive. His survival had made him something of a local legend.

He chuckled to himself. Dead, he was worth enough to comfortably feed a small city for a year. Alive, it was twice that. The greed of hunters had kept him alive at least a dozen times. They always tried to take him alive.

So when the war started, the opportunity to hurt the enemy had drawn him like a moth to a flame. Spite was as good a reason as any to fight. He'd formed a mercenary company, the Black Clad, and chosen each member personally. He glanced over his shoulder at them, their long black coats flapping gently in the afternoon wind. Riding at the head of the column were the four he actually trusted.

Just behind him rode Osias and Rose. Rumor had it that Rose had elf blood, her delicate features and the slight taper to her ears lending weight to that claim. Then there was the uncanny way her arrows seemed to seek out their targets on the battlefield. Osias was her man, and the years he'd spent with the elf-girl had made him graceful and somewhat aloof. He was built a bit like an elf, his body thin and his limbs tight with muscle. His skill with his swords was chilling to behold. Zeb had never seen him off balance. Not _once_. Nor had he ever seen him use both swords. He would switch freely between them in battle, the straight sword on his back and the curved sword on his hip moving too quickly for the eye to follow.

Then came Bryce; lean, tall and wiry. Bryce was always the life of the party. Constantly smiling, never seeming to take anything seriously, he'd grated like sandpaper on Zeb's temper. Until a fight broke out, then he understood. Bryce was an assassin. Why he'd left his calling, they would never know, but the man's skills were terrifying. He could disappear in an empty room, or pass unnoticed through an iron gate. The first time Zeb had seen him fight, he'd put one of his punching daggers through a breastplate with the same nonchalance he now showed in the saddle.

Following behind the officers was Daeric, Zeb's squire. Not technically an officer, but still trusted. A year or so back, Zeb's horse had been stolen. In tracking down and killing the men responsible, he had saved the lad's life. Since then the boy had followed him like a lost puppy, telling stories of his virtues in every passing town. He was young and naive, but he kept Zeb honest.

Trundling along behind them came some 200 mercenaries, and the necessary supply wagons to keep them fed and sheltered. Their identical black coats kindled a spark of pride in him. _What do you do when people start looking for a swordsman in a black coat? _He thought to himself._ Make two hundred more, and parade them around._

"Here we are, lads!" he roared, his voice carrying back over the marching column. "Let's make this shit heap into a proper home!" A cheer went up among the mercenaries, their pace picking up at the thought of a roof over their heads and solid walls. "Quartermaster!" he called tersely. The pudgy man who served as the unit's supply officer pulled his horse alongside them.

"Sir?"

"I want a full inventory on what the fortress holds." He paused, eyeing the single tower. "And get whatever black we have left and set to work on a banner." Zeb said sternly. "I want anyone riding by to know exactly who owns this ruin."

"As you command." The man saluted sharply and heeled his horse back toward the supply wagons. He liked the quartermaster. The man was a coward, but he had an eye for logistics that helped the operation run smoothly. He also looked exhausted as he turned his horse. Sometimes Zeb forgot that fatigue worked differently for the portly little man.

"Quartermaster," he softened his voice. The man turned. "Get some rest. Get me the inventory tomorrow morning." The small man nodded his thanks breathlessly, walking his horse back toward the supply wagons.

"Squads!" Zeb bellowed. The column of warriors split into ten squads, their leaders moving to stand in an orderly formation before him. "You've ridden hard, and I appreciate that. Get yourselves some sleep with a roof over your heads. Today is yours. Do what you will. Double rations and wine. Tomorrow we set to work making this pile of rocks into a proper base."

The men cheered. They had walked and ridden through the night to get here, rather than set up camp just hours from their destination. They were tired. They were cold. A full belly and a warm place to sleep was all they needed to be happy at the moment, so he'd give it to them.

"You know…" Bryce muttered. "You're actually not a terrible leader."

"Spare me," Zeb scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"It's because the power holds no appeal for him," Rose said softly, her voice trailing off. "He doesn't want it…"

"…so he doesn't abuse it." Osias finished for her.

"As I said," the big man growled. "Spare me."

The company began filing through the ramshackle gate that had once barred the entrance to the fortress. Bryce approached the still-intact side of the gate and gave it a gentle push. With a wrenching sound, the metal hinges gave, and the rotten timbers fell to the ground with a deafening crash.

"_Delightful_," he drawled.

The men began to enter the labyrinthine tunnels that led into the mountain, lighting torches and descending into the darkness. The ruin was deserted. It had clearly been abandoned many years prior. Zeb dismounted and strode to the stairs that led to the wall. Climbing the worn stone, he looked out over the fields beyond. The forest had encroached on the open ground in the years that the fortress had been left empty.

"Find somewhere and get some rest." Rose said, suddenly beside him. By the gods she was light on her feet. He calmed his nerves.

"I'm fine."

"You're jumpy…" She observed.

"…because you've been awake for four days straight." Osias appeared behind him.

He fought not to jump. They had a point. These long tracks of wakefulness did tend to make him jittery.

"The trees are too close." He gestured to the edge of the forest, barely twenty paces from the wall. "They'll provide cover and keep us from seeing what's coming."

Rose's face darkened. Her upbringing in the forests had given her some… _interesting_ quirks. She never approved of the felling of trees. Trees have souls, she'd told him. They felt pain and anguish just like people did. _Elves_, he thought with a smirk. They had unique ideas, to be sure, but he was never sure if he actually believed any of it.

"I'm sorry Rose, but we're going to need to clear the trees." He paused. "Do whatever you must to give them peace, but we need about five hundred yards of clear ground before the wall, and to widen the plain beyond that so we can see. Otherwise our arrows won't be worth anything."

She was silent. Osias gently laid his hand on her shoulder.

"We'll plant seeds for every tree that falls." He said consolingly. "The forest will endure."

"The forest always endures," Rose said bitterly. She glanced at Zeb and her expression softened. "Go get some sleep. We can watch the men. Tomorrow I'll tend to the trees."

.

.

.

The dream came again. Always the same two faces. Always that familiar sense of belonging.

His body was smaller, not yet grown to the unnatural stature he had now. The three of them were together, just sitting around a campfire, smiling, laughing, and sharing a meal. He looked over the fire at his companions. The tall boy with the brown eyes, his friendship and support evident in the looks they shared. The small girl with the mischievous lilt to everything she said. The calm sense of belonging was heady, almost addictive in its intensity. His eyes drifted shut in contentment. Trying to remember their names was like trying to hold smoke. Every time he thought he had something, it slipped away.

Flashes of scenes played out before him, too fast to grasp but too powerful to ignore.

Running through a forest.

Surrounded.

The tall boy dueling against an unseen opponent. The blade lancing into his gut. His body lying face-down.

The girl and himself, fighting like the heroes of old.

The girl's face, creased with despair, and the tears on his own cheeks as they regarded the tall boy's prone form.

The glint of a crossbow over her shoulder. The face of the man, grinning maliciously as he loosed the bolt.

The look of surprise on her face as she was knocked forward.

The light of life fading from her eyes.

"NO!" He jolted awake. The night wind seemed to pull the warmth from him, and he tightened his cloak. Always the same dream, always that yawning chasm of loss in his gut when he awoke. He wished he could remember their names. He knew they'd been close and he knew they had died. But the rest was a mystery. It was as if parts of his memories were shrouded. He could make out the vague shape, but all the details were impossible. He fought the urge to scream his rage at the night sky. Every night he slept, he had the same dream.

Every. Damned. Night.

He sat up, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Rose had been making him sleep on a regular basis again. He glanced upwards. The stars were bright and clear, staring serenely down at the fort and its garrison. He cast his hands around, not looking away from the stars. After some searching, his right hand found the flagon of wine. He uncorked it and raised it to the sky.

"Here's to you two." He said, toasting. "I don't remember your names, but I know you were important to me, and I to you. That doesn't happen often."

He brought the wine to his lips, and paused. The moment lingered awkwardly, and his hand fell, the bottle settling on the ground next to him.

"I miss you." He admitted, and the admission took a lot out of him. His brow furrowed in confusion. "I feel that, and I can't even remember your names." He glanced down the few hundred feet to the courtyard. The torches cast a dim light across the area, and the watch were about to change shifts. "And you went down swingin," he muttered with a sad smile, bringing the wine back to his lips. "Here's to that."

He drank deeply. The wine was decent. A sweet red from the port cities to the east, the flagon was soon dry. He dropped a heavy stone into it, tossing it aside to land atop the sizeable pile of empties. Wine took the edge off the dreams, but it took a _lot_ of it. The wind picked up, pulling at the fur-lined cloak he had wrapped around his form. The cold bit into his bones, and he welcomed it. The cold bit, and you either fought it off, or you froze. Nothing was truer to life than that. It came for you, and you fought it off or you died.

_Then there are the crazy ones who actually seek the cold out._ He smiled to himself. _Just to see how much of it they can take._

He stretched, feeling the knots in his back and shoulders. Sleeping on stone wasn't very forgiving, but he could never sleep when he was around people. The threat of discovery was too great. He eyed his perch, as he'd come to think of it in the past three weeks. It was a natural formation, a plateau that cut into the cliff face, forming a somewhat-flat platform about eight feet across. A bedroll was weighted down with a stone on each corner, and a climbing spike had been hammered into the stone wall above it. A leather strap looped from the iron spike to wrap around his waist, his one concession to safety. Rose had insisted he was no use to them if he rolled off the ledge in his sleep. He slid the rocks out of his boots and put them on. The wind up here was murderous, so he'd had to weight everything down. He stood, unfastening the strap from his waist and rolled his shoulders again.

He worked through a series of stretches, loosening and warming the muscles of his cold body. Eventually he stooped to pick up a pair of heavy iron weights, each built to wrap around a fist. Bringing his fists up like a boxer, he continued to stretch, teasing the tension out of his back and shoulders. He brought his fists up again, throwing a couple punches. Crosses, hooks, uppercuts, he ran through an imaginary fight that lasted several minutes before beginning again. His pace increased, the punches and counters came faster. He repeated the routine twelve more times, until his hands and arms were a blur. The muscles of his upper body burned, and he relished the feeling. The weights dropped from his fists with a dull metallic clang, and he repeated the fight one last time. His newly weightless arms moved almost too fast to follow. He finished the fight, replaying in his mind the moment he'd landed the last hit and his opponent had toppled to the ground unconscious. Then he smiled.

He folded the bedroll, taking a piece of canvas and setting it over the cloth, weighing it down until he'd need it next. He lifted the fur-edged cloak that had served as his blanket and set it about his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He focused his mind, pulling inward and clamping down on his _gift_, as he bitterly referred to it. Once the pain in his head had reached a tolerable level, he swung his feet over the edge and began the two hundred foot climb down.

The sun was rising, the light warming his back as he made his way down the path of handholds he'd memorized. As he settled just above the window to the highest room of the keep, he took a deep breath. The next move needed to be perfect.

He let go, dropping ten feet before his hands found the stone rim running along the top of the window. His momentum swung him into the room, and he landed in a heap. Daeric snapped awake with a startled gasp. The young squire's bedroll was laid out on the floor, and Zeb found himself sprawled out next to it. The fire was roaring, and the room was comfortably warm, despite the open window.

"Not your most graceful landing, master," Daeric muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Zeb chuckled, standing and casting aside the cloak. His gear was all laid out in good order, his armor resting on a rack near the fireplace. He moved to the weapons, the small armory he had amassed in his travels. Knives, axes, swords, maces, all lovingly maintained and resting in organized chaos along the far wall. He grabbed the pair of knives he'd owned longer than any of them, strapping them to his boots. His hand hovered over a bandolier of throwing blades, but he stopped. Chopping down trees was not dangerous work. The knives would suffice. He noticed a half-eaten meal on the bedside as he re-tied his boots.

"See you've been testing my food for poison," he smiled to the young squire. "Good lad."

"Poison?" Daeric sounded terrified. Zeb's laughter boomed across the room. He hefted a long-handled felling axe. Not a weapon, but still well made, and strode for the door.

"You want your coat and sword?" the young squire asked.

"Bertellus has been cooped up in this place for a few days," the big man muttered. "Take him for a run later. Bring them to me then."

He strode through the torch-lit tunnels of the inner keep. The walls were smooth, carved in a bygone age where men took great pride in their craft. Here and there the walls were etched with angular runes that he couldn't make heads or tails of. _Some kind of map or direction, probably._ He shook his head, banishing the pointless train of thought. He reached the door to the courtyard and threw it open, taking in the sight of their new home. The cooking pit, the blacksmith's area, the field hospital, the armory, they had made a proper fortress out of an old ruin. The repairs to the stonework were finished the day prior, and the new gate stood proud. His men looked at ease, Roane's payment having cemented their loyalty. Zeb still couldn't decide if the three chests of gold had been left there by the former masters of the fortress, or sent by some other means. No matter. The men were rich, so they were happy.

The scouts and woodsmen from their number were already assembled, and he nodded in approval.

"Open the gate!" he bellowed, and they strode out into the morning light.

.

.

.

Six hours later, he stepped aside as their twentieth tree of the day toppled downward to crash with an earth-shaking boom. The scouts set about stripping the branches from the massive trunk, while the woodsmen readied saws and began carving it into moveable pieces. It was hard work, and his muscles burned with the exertion.

Osias and Rose were tending to the trees, ministering to them to give them peace before they fell. Each time, Zeb would indicate their next target. Rose would lay her hands and forehead on the bark, whispering to it sadly before finally giving them a glare and a nod. Bryce was somewhere nearby. Zeb had caught the hint of a shadow in his peripheral vision and recognized the way the man moved.

The work progressed swiftly, and soon the massive trunk was reduced to workable pieces. The choicest would be carefully cut and shaped to make the thousands and thousands of arrows they would need. The larger branches would be sharpened into stakes, to be placed at the foot of the wall, the larger trunk would be sawed into planks to reinforce the gate, with the scraps becoming firewood. Seeing no sense in leaving anything for the enemy to use, they would stockpile it behind the wall. A day of cutting, a day of moving the lumber, a day of cutting, so it had continued for the past three weeks.

"This looks important!" Bryce's voice called out, seemingly from nowhere. The assassin appeared in the branches of a tree on the edge of the forest, pointing down the treeline.

A group of people streamed from the trees, running in obvious fear. A few of them began running toward Zeb's group. The disordered flock spread thin, the eldest and youngest slowly falling behind. They continued to pour from the treeline, until more than fifty were running toward the mercenaries, their clothes torn and their faces lined with exhaustion.

A line of cavalry crested the ridgeline above the refugees. They wore the immaculate silver and white of the Sharn Templars, and they were closing fast. Thirty cavalry against some fifty civilians; it would be a massacre.

Zeb looked to the scouts secreted in the trees and nodded once, his hand making a circling motion. They vanished into the forest. Without a word to his companions, he hefted the heavy axe and sprinted toward the approaching civilians. After thirty seconds he was within earshot.

"Make for the fortress!" he bellowed. "Roane sent us here! We will protect you!"

A few of the panicked villagers heard and started toward the distant ruin. Zeb kept up his ground-eating pace. Bryce appeared beside him, keeping up the speed effortlessly. Osias and Rose followed a few paces behind. Sparing a half-second to glance over his shoulder he saw that the gate was open, and Daeric was leading the horses toward the villagers. _Good lad. Perfect timing._

The four of them ran straight through the panicked refugees, emerging between the advancing horsemen and their fleeing prey.

"Get to the fortress." He heard Bryce calmly addressing the crowd, his voice completely normal, despite the breakneck pace of the run. "You'll be safe there."

The four of them skidded to a halt some ten yards behind the group of refugees. Zeb brandished the large axe he'd been felling trees with. Rose nocked an arrow. Osias and Bryce let their hands fall to the hilts of their respective blades. The cavalry moved into a seamless formation, seven wide, five deep, spreading slightly to surround them.

"I am Zeb. I own the fortress south of here." The big man said calmly, enunciating the words to sound more refined. "Who among you has the authority to speak with me?"

One rider walked his horse forward, his helmet crest and elaborately wrought armor marking him out as an officer. "I command these riders." He said, condescendingly. "By the Divine right of the One True Faith, why have you interrupted our hunt?"

"You weren't chasing deer." Bryce said, his tone serious for once. "Those were people."

"These people have been giving food and shelter to members of the rebellion." The cavalryman snapped. "They break bread and share fires with heathens and heretics. In the eyes of the One True God, they are less than human, and we hunt them as such."

Bryce was about to reply, when Zeb's hand came to rest on his shoulder. The assassin nodded wordlessly. Zeb looked up to the mounted party, giving them a cursory sweep of his eyes before sighing.

"I'd rather not kill you with the sun in your eyes." He said simply, turning and pacing toward the tree line. His companions matched his pace. "You'll need every advantage you can get."

To his surprise, the cavalry officer nodded, pacing his horse beside. He scanned the tree line and then nodded once to his men, who followed. In the shadow of the great forest, the two forces sized one another up. There were thirty cavalrymen, a standard bearer, three priests, and one young woman with hands bound. She was slight, looking to be in her early twenties. Her clothes were tattered, bruises were visible on much of her skin, and her eyes gazed blankly into the middle distance.

"So you were hunting those families we saw." Zeb nodded to the broken-looking girl. "What about her?"

"She's mine." The leader of the cavalry said calmly. "Spoils of the recent war."

Rose bristled, drawing her bow and aiming for the man in one swift action. Zeb's raised hand gently pushed the bow aside.

"You are well rested, and well armed. I am unarmored and have been felling trees all day," the big man smiled. "That's _almost_ fair. I challenge you for her. We settle this the old way, like men, and none of our troops need to die."

"You have a high opinion of yourself." The man sneered down at him.

"No." Bryce chuckled. "Just a low one of you."

Zeb had to fight a smile, letting the words sit a moment before repeating. "I challenge you for her."

"Aren't you _valiant_," the man sneered through his helm. "And if I win?"

"Then you keep her," Zeb said jovially. "Unless you're afraid to lose to a peasant you found chopping wood?" The other cavalrymen were casting wary glances at their leader, and Zeb knew he'd put the man in a corner. He hid his smile.

"Fine." The man snapped, pointing off behind them. "But if I win, I claim your horse, also."

"Bertellus?" the big man considered this, slightly surprised. Glancing to where the cavalryman had gestured, he saw that the massive horse had come to a stop on the edge of the encounter. He shrugged, turning back to his opponent. "All right. But you'd best take care of him." Daeric dismounted and came forward, offering him his sheathed sword and coat. Zeb waved him away. The cavalryman trotted his horse some distance away and drew an ornately-made sword.

"Ready when you are." Zeb said simply, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck.

The rider dug his heels in and the horse charged, building speed. Zeb tightened his grip, shifting the axe slightly and lining up the movements in his mind's eye. He began to run toward the charging animal. Just before they met, he roared at the horse. It was well-trained, but the combination of the charge and the sudden noise made it jink slightly to avoid him. Off-balance, the rider's sword lashed for his neck but missed its mark. Zeb's hand shot out as they passed one another, grabbing a handful of the man's pristine white cloak and wrenching him roughly from the saddle. Zeb spun and brought the axe down as the rider landed. The exquisitely-crafted breastplate cracked as the blade smashed into it. The Templar's sword fell from his hand as he gasped for breath. Before he could rise, the axe fell again, catching the same spot in the breastplate and hammering through to his chest. There was a strangled gurgle, and the armored body went still. Zeb turned to regard the sitting cavalrymen.

"That was a very dull axe." He said with a friendly smile, leaving the weapon embedded in the fallen officer's chest. His strides took him to the others, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of the sword in Daeric's arms. "I've been felling trees with it for the past three weeks. I won. Unless you'd like to see what I can do with an actual _weapon _in my hands, release the girl."

The horses fidgeted nervously at the scent of blood, and the riders glanced warily at each other. After what seemed like an hour of silence, one of them scowled. "What's to keep us from killing you right now?"

"Nothing," Zeb said calmly, donning the coat and drawing the sword. It was a masterwork of a weapon, four feet of heavy, broad blade resting above a long two-handed grip. He lifted it as thought it didn't weigh anything and aimed it at the speaker, and then his two closest subordinates. "But you, you and you will die before anyone lands a hit on me." He gestured to another man. "You'll come in beside me while I kill number three, and Rose here will put an arrow through your right eye."

"Left." Rose corrected him calmly. "He squints with the right. I'll take his good eye."

The man blanched, raising a hand to guard the vision slit of his helm. Osias and Bryce drew their weapons, taking places beside the big man. Zeb settled into a low guard.

"Charge if you like, the ones sitting at the back of your formation may have a victory to celebrate when it's over. Each of us will take at least five of you down. You have the numbers to carry the fight. Just." He sighed. "But now my blood is up. So come at us or get the hell out of my sight."

The calm dismissal in the voice seemed to sap what resolve remained among them. The one who had spoken sneered again. "You think you give us orders? You need to learn your place, lowborn. I'll not sully my blade with your filthy blood, but we're keeping the girl. The men will enjoy her on the way back to the encampment."

Zeb's eyes went cold and Bryce sighed theatrically. The others only had time to inhale before the big man was in motion. The sneering Templar turned his horse to leave, and Zeb cannoned into the animal, his shoulder pitching it onto its side. The horse fell, landing with a crunch on the rider's armored leg. The man screamed, the animal's momentum rolled it over him. The pommel of the saddle crushed the gilded breastplate into its rider's sternum. The scream became a ragged gasp.

In the time it took the horse to roll back to its feet and bolt away, each of his cadre had taken their first three kills. A couple heartbeats later, that number had doubled. Two dozen riders lay strewn about the clearing, their horses in a state of terror, and their comrades turning to bolt.

As the surviving Templars wheeled their mounts the Blackclad scouts made their presence known. Ten arrows flashed from the trees, and five men dropped. An uncanny shot from Rose took another, and the scouts' second volley finished the job.

The bruised girl slid from the saddle, and Zeb dove to catch her, cradling her in his arms. He stood, lifting her gently. She was light, almost starved. Her eyes seemed to focus for a moment, boring into his own. There was panic there, and something else he couldn't place.

"No further harm will come to you, girl." He said, in what he hoped was a consoling tone. "Daeric." he called. "Take Bertellus. Get her to the fortress, find her some fresh clothes and get her something to eat. Then tell the men to start mixing up another five batches of mortar for the gate and send the carts to start moving this wood behind the wall."

The young man nodded. Zeb reached out and pulled him close.

"She looks like she's been through a lot," he whispered. "Nobody touches her. On my authority, or they swing from the ramparts tonight. Make sure they know."

"Got it." The squire affirmed solemnly.

"Go with him." Zeb said. The girl looked at him, still trembling. Her arms slid into his coat, wrapping around his chest. She clung to him, the feeling was not unpleasant. He softened the order with a smile. "I'll be back soon. There's still work to be done here."

She nodded softly, releasing him with trembling hands and letting him lift her up onto the saddle. Daeric touched his heels to Bertellus' flanks and the great beast began to gallop toward the fortress.

He turned to see Rose approaching one of the spooked horses, muttering something he couldn't make out. She slowly brought her hand to rest on the animal's nose, letting it take in her scent. She stroked its mane and whispered to it, and the horse calmed. She moved to lift the saddlebags from its back.

"Looks like they were carrying a week's rations," she observed, rummaging through the satchel, "with four days gone."

"Assuming they didn't come in a straight line here, that puts their army at two or three days ride away," Zeb reasoned, "Add a day, because they'll have to move from water-to-water, like we did." He paused, running the calculations in his head.

"Their troops should be here in five or six days." Osias joined the conversation. "If they move at a decent pace, but don't push them."

"If they push them?" Bryce called over from where he was soothing another one of the horses.

"Four days." Zeb and Rose said in unison.

"So we should probably plan on them being here in three days." Osias said to nobody in particular.

"Agreed," Zeb nodded. He ripped the white cloak off of a body and cleaned the blood from his blade, inspecting the edge for any areas that would need attention. A weak groan from the body dragged his attention back to the present. The second officer, the man whose horse had rolled, was still alive, if barely. Zeb crouched down, bringing his face close to the dying man. "I'll not sully my blade with your _high rider_ blood," he drew the words out, making a meal of them, "but you're not keeping the girl."

He stood, and his boot came down on the man's neck, putting him out of his misery with a sharp crack. The sound of hoof beats in the distance dragged him away from the moment. A single rider, lightly armored, had crested the ridge a quarter mile distant. He spotted the scene of carnage, turned his mount, and began galloping away at speed. Rose nocked an arrow and drew back her bow in a blur, sighting the fleeing horseman. She paused. "He's out of my range."

"Well," he heard Bryce mumble. "Shit."

"Now they know we're here." Daeric was pale.

"That _was_ eventually going to be the point." Zeb said simply.

"Black Clad!" Zeb bellowed. The ten scouts all jogged over to him, standing in loose formation. He gestured with his sword toward the bodies. "We've been resupplied. Take the weapons and armor. Get them to the quartermaster and have it all properly shaded. You ten get first pick. Pile the corpses, shred the standard, and set it as a warning."

"A warning?" one of the scouts raised an eyebrow, "or a challenge?"

Zeb smiled.

.

.

.

The next couple days passed in a blur, the armor from the thirty horsemen was blackened and distributed to those with a need for it, and they drilled day and night on siege tactics and squad combat.

The wagons they had brought were packed with supplies for the road, enough to get the refugees comfortably to the nearest city. The horses carried the men and women too old or injured to make the journey on foot.

"Not a very inspiring sight." Daeric muttered tiredly.

"You'll be leading them." Zeb said simply. "Get your things."

"You're joking," the young squire said, baffled. "I'm your squire. I belong where you are."

"You belong _alive_," the big man said, lowering his voice. "Do not take this as a punishment, Daeric." The young squire started at the use of his name. Usually it was 'lad' or 'boy'. "I taught you how to fight, but this isn't a fight, it's a siege. This will be death on an insane scale, and killing from sunup to sundown. I'd rather avoid you becoming one of them." He nodded toward a group of Blackclad throwing knives at a wooden target. "Take Bertellus. There's no use in him dying here either."

"You're set on this, then?" the younger man asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Dying here?"

"I don't intend to die anywhere." Zeb smirked. "But I'm not fond of our odds."

"You're a poor liar, master." Daeric muttered sadly.

"I need you to keep these people together, and get them to the city." The huge mercenary said honestly. "You're the only one I trust that I don't need on the wall beside me."

"That's flattering."

"Oy." Zeb slapped him lightly on the back of the head. "Get your stuff. There's a gift for you in the room. I'll get the horse."

"All right," the squire nodded, hastily jogging into the keep.

Zeb strode across the courtyard to the wooden building that had served as their stable. The only horse left in the building was his, and Bertellus shifted anxiously in the dark. Zeb moved to the enclosure, speaking in soothing tones. The horse walked to him, nuzzling his chest, and he smiled sadly.

"I'll miss you too, buddy." He rested his forehead on that of the mighty beast and spoke calmly. "Keep the lad safe. If you smell blood, just run." Zeb knew the horse couldn't understand him, but he still felt the need to speak the words.

He lifted the blanket and saddle, laying it over the horse's back and fastening the straps firmly. Next he fastened the bridle, looping the reins over the pommel. He reached into one of the pockets sewn into his coat and pulled out a heavy bag of golden coins, slipping them into one of the saddlebags. Next he checked the horse's hooves and muscles, looking for anything amiss. His cursory inspection done, he patted Bertellus on the side of the neck and walked him out into the courtyard.

"Quartermaster," he nodded to the portly man sitting in the lead wagon. "Safe Journey."

The quartermaster tossed him a small notebook, and he caught it deftly, raising an eyebrow.

"For the lads." The small man said sadly.

Zeb opened the cover, scanning the first page.

_Zeb: Five shares - Hair: Dark - Eyes: Green - Weapon: Sword - Faith: None - Burial Preference: None_

_Daeric: One share - Hair: Dark - Eyes: Blue –Weapon: None - Faith: Old Gods - Burial Preference: Traditional Western_

He flipped through the pages. Every member of the company was listed. He closed the book, giving the quartermaster a respectful nod. Daeric emerged from the keep doors a few seconds later, new armor shining in the sunlight, a masterwork spear resting on one shoulder, a short sword belted at his hip. A few cheers of approval sounded from the Blackclad nearby. He leaned sheepishly on the spear, shifting his shoulders under the new armor. A long moment passed, and Zeb gave him an approving nod. Daeric strode over and stepped up into the saddle.

"Follow the mountains east." Zeb said simply, "Stay in the forest until you hit the trade road. Then make speed toward the city."

"What if they find us?" he asked quietly.

"Then those of you on horseback can escape while they ride down those on foot." Zeb said sadly. "That's all that can be done. I need the Blackclad here."

"Brutal," the squire mused.

Zeb smirked, putting up a fist. Daeric punched into it, the knuckles of their gauntlets locking together momentarily. "If we live," Zeb said quietly. "I'll come find you."

"Let's go!" the squire bellowed, straightening in the saddle. "With any luck, we can be at the city in three days!"

The caravan began moving, the horses walking, and the carts and wagons trundling along. Within a few minutes, the courtyard was empty again. Zeb watched them go, a vague feeling of triumph briefly filling him. At least he'd saved the innocents. If they'd stayed here…

He let the thought die there. No use following it. He paced into the keep, to the great hall that served as their barracks and mess hall. He paced the rows of tables until he found a spare quill and ink pot. Dipping the quill, he opened the book to its first page and crossed off a word with a sad smile, scribbling its replacement in his scratchy hand.

_Daeric: One share - Hair: Dark - Eyes: Blue –Weapon: __**Spear**_

He flipped to the next page, reading the entries for Osias and Rose, and then Bryce, and on downward through the ranks. The quartermaster had been thorough. Sighing, he closed the book, tucking it into a pocket of his coat and standing. He'd need wine for this.

A few minutes later, he was sat at a table, several bottles of wine and a small fortress of candles stacked around the book. He read, and he learned. He came to know the men behind the weapons, the men who would live and die by his word in a day's time.

Four pages in he poured himself a drink, taking a first tentative sip to taste for poison. He'd been dosed with just about everything over the years, but no that was no excuse to get sloppy at this point. He scanned the page and furrowed his brow. He'd never pictured Brogar as a religious man. Kane, the knife-thrower was too, apparently. Names and faces filled his mind as he read, and he forced himself to memorize as much as possible. Another ten pages and he had finished the first bottle of wine. He pulled the cork from the second with his teeth and refilled his cup. Another short taste for poison was quickly followed by another nod of relief when none was there.

Each time his eyes alighted upon a name, he forced himself to remember how he'd met them, how they'd sparred to take the measure of each other, and how the man had carried himself since becoming one of the Blackclad.

So he continued. He read, and he drank. He drank to the living, and he drank to the soon to be dead.

.

.

.

"What's this, then?" Osias's voice snapped him awake.

His head snapped up from the table, glancing down to the small leather book in his hands and the empty bottles lining the table. The candles had burnt down to nothing.

"Just reading," he mumbled tiredly. "What brings you into the mess hall, Oss? This is a bit unrefined for your tastes."

"And a bit refined for yours," Oss smiled at this oldest of jests between the two of them. "What is that?"

"Something the quartermaster cooked up." He said simply, tucking the book into his coat and shaking his head. "We'll need it tomorrow."

Oss sat down and poured himself a glass. "Rose sent me to find you." He admitted.

"I can't sleep when anyone could kick down my door." He muttered.

"Then I'll watch your door." Bryce said simply, appearing beside him and raising a bottle to his lips. "What are we drinking to?"

Oss narrowed his eyes slightly.

"On topic, you're no use to us half-asleep when the fighting starts," Bryce said, his tone half-serious. "It makes you sloppy."

Zeb opened his mouth to argue again, but the looks the three of them were giving him killed the argument before it formed.

"Go." Oss said simply. He relented.

.

.

.

As much as he hated to admit it, lying in a real bed felt fantastic. It seemed to wrap around him, pulling the tension from his overworked muscles. Something was off, though. It made the hairs on the back of his neck raise, keeping him from true rest. Breathing. Very soft, but breathing nonetheless. It was coming from behind his arming rack, the armor obscuring the form of the intruder.

_So much for sleep,_ he thought bitterly. He listened for almost a minute, taking in the depth and frequency of the breaths, and not recognizing it. He couldn't get a glimpse of them through the gaps of the armor either, their form too slight. He began to reach for a weapon, before realizing who exactly was in his room. "What are you doing here?"

The breathing stopped.

"You should have left when the others did."

The girl they'd rescued from the cavalry officer peeked from behind the armor. She'd cleaned up, and her short red hair framed a strikingly pretty face. She looked scared at being noticed. "I…" she stopped, breaking eye contact.

"I'll not hurt you, girl." He said, closing his eyes and trying to seem less exhausted than he was. "Speak."

"I want to be where you are." She said quietly, barely above a whisper. "You saved me."

"No, I killed the men who took you." He sighed tiredly, a similar situation had led to Daeric's service as his squire. _You kill the right person at the right time, and suddenly you're a damn hero, _he thought darkly. He realized she was still staring at him. "You do realize we're about to be in a siege?"

She nodded.

"And that we probably won't survive but a few days once that starts?" She nodded again. "And still you want to stay here?"

"Yes," she nodded a third time, her voice gaining some strength. "I want to be where you are."

"Then you've got less sense than I do." He said coldly. Those green eyes bored into him, pleading. The moment stretched, and he sighed again. "Whatever. Find yourself an empty room. You aren't staying in mine."

A brilliant smile lit her face, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. He fought the urge to shake his head, irritated at the effect it had on him. She turned to leave, stopping at the door. "Thank you!" she said with another breath-catching smile.

"Thank me in a week," he said, more darkly than he'd intended.

She departed, leaving the door open in her wake. He felt sleep beckoning, pulling at him with that siren song that was so hard to fight. Shaking his head, he forced himself up and moved to the door. Bryce's head leaned around the frame, nodding in the direction the girl had gone and raising an eyebrow. That knowing twinkle in the assassin's eye always made Zeb want to hit something.

"Not a word." He said sharply, closing and barring the door. He walked over to the bed and fell forward without ceremony. Burying his face in the furs, he surrendered to a few hours of reluctant sleep. The dreams came again.

.

.

.

"Riders approaching!" one of the sentries called out. "In white!"

Zeb sprinted to the wall, taking the steps three at a time. Rose and Oss were there already, and he wasn't surprised to see Bryce appear at his shoulder. A group of five riders galloped toward the fortress, their white robes and silver armor almost painfully bright in the noonday sun. He breathed a sigh of relief. The riders were coming from the south, away from where Daeric's caravan had headed. As they approached the wall, they dismounted, one man striding forward to call up to the ramparts. The cut of his white robes was luxurious; a herald.

"We seek terms!" the man's refined voice called out. "Of entry and resupply!"

Ropes were lowered, and the four of them vaulted over the wall and slid down to the ground.

"Three." He muttered under his breath.

"Three," they repeated in unison, understanding immediately. It was an old game for them. The four of them walked calmly to meet the diplomats of the Templar army. They took the measure of the five arrayed in white ahead of them; a herald, a priest, and three Templars.

The two small groups stood, sizing one another up. The uncomfortable silence stretched, the lack of sound feeling oppressive and hostile. Zeb had to fight a grin. The instant the herald took a deep breath to begin, he cut him off.

"Who are you?" he asked with no small amount of hostility in his voice. "And why have you come to my wall?"

"I am Sir Enrel," The herald in white recovered smoothly, "Voice of the Templar army, and personal herald of the Deacon of the Northern Reaches, blessings upon his sacred name. With whom do I treat?"

"Zeb of the Black Clad." The big man said brusquely, he nodded his head to the right, "Osias, Rose," and once to the left. "Bryce."

"Our men need water and shelter. This fortress falls under the authority of the One True God, and is therefore tasked with the supply of His armies in the..."

"To what end?" Zeb cut him off. "You would march an army into my fastness and expect us to bend the knee?"

"To crush this unholy rebellion of the coastal cities," one of the warriors snapped.

"The Free Cities." Rose corrected him.

"As brother Martel says," the herald insisted, attempting to regain control of the conversation. "We are here to end this nasty business and bring order to the One True God's people once more."

"Order." Bryce repeated. "Not peace? Not prosperity? Order?"

The herald and his bodyguards tensed, and Zeb smiled. Trust the assassin to cut to the heart of the matter.

"We also seek the murderers of a party of riders that were last seen headed in this direction." The priest behind the herald spoke, his voice self-assured.

"That was us," Bryce said jovially, spreading his arms to indicate the four of them. The mirth in the assassin's tone seemed to unnerve the priest, and Zeb found himself fighting not to laugh. "How can we help you? Need someone else taken care of? We aren't cheap, but our results are second to none."

"The parties responsible must accompany us to the Deacon's Host to stand trial."

"And if we refuse?" Zeb spoke, taking the reins of the conversation again with a serious tone. "Both to the water, and that farce of a trial?"

"We are divinely purposed." The herald spoke smoothly. "You are not, no heathen has ever stood against the forces of the One True God and survived." Zeb chuckled and raised a finger. The herald continued. "You think to stop us with this? This ragtag host of cutthroats and vagabonds?" the herald gestured to the wall, and the Blackclad standing on it. Zeb raised a second finger. "No simple mercenary will ever be able to match the splendor of even a single Templar."

"Was that three?" the big man asked Bryce, his tone casual.

"That was three," Bryce nodded cheerfully. "So _quick_ about it, too."

Three insults meant that negotiations were over. It was the game they all played whenever someone wanted a parley. You didn't insult a group of killers and walk away unkilled. It was just the way things were. The sword in Osias's hand flashed out faster than the eye could follow. The herald in white fell back, his throat opened in mid-reply. The three Templars moved to draw their weapons. Rose's arrow took the first through the throat, punching between the plates of his armor. The other two managed to draw their weapons before they slumped to the ground. Bryce crouched over them, his punching blades embedded to the knuckles in the back of their necks. Zeb's sword cleared its scabbard, whistling through the air to stop a hair's breadth from the priest's throat.

"You listen to me." He said coldly. "This fortress belongs to the Black Clad, under contract to General Roane of the Free Cities. It will never serve the Temple of Sharn, nor its Templars. _I_ own this fortress, and if you want the water, your leader can fight me for it. If he isn't man enough for that, you can throw every man you have at my wall and _we will_ _kill them all_." The men on the ramparts cheered at this. "You have insulted us three times today, DO NOT add a fourth. Do you understand me?"

The herald nodded, terrified.

"Then run back to your masters." Zeb scowled. "And tell them every word I just said."

The man mounted his horse and retreated as quickly as he could.

The four of them calmly strode back to the wall and ascended the ropes again. Atop the wall, Zeb sat with his back to the ramparts, closing his eyes. "Call all our scouts back. Get everybody fed and wake me when they get here."

He half-dozed for the next few hours, resting but refusing to give in to sleep. He listened, gauging the morale of the men, and letting his apparent disregard for their enemy give them strength. _Battle at last_. It had been too long. A trail of very soft footfalls advanced to him and stopped. _ Rose._ Oss had a longer stride, and Bryce made less noise. "They're here." She said softly. Thirty seconds later, a cry sounded from the top of the tower.

"Templars! Moving into the valley!"

"Black Clad!" he bellowed, standing. "Suit up!"

He dropped from the wall into the courtyard, barely breaking stride as he walked into the keep and to his chambers. He moved to the arming rack, leaving the breastplate, but removing the rest of his blackened armor. The heavy chest-piece cost him too much mobility. If someone landed a lucky hit to his heart… well… he wouldn't be around to lament it anyway. He buckled the plates of his greaves over his boots and stood, taking a few stomping steps around to test the straps. Good. He took off his coat, unfastening the liner. He donned the inner layer before adding a long coat of burnished steel chainmail, the length of the coat itself. He applied the outer layer of the coat again and refastened the bindings that held the two together. A pair of heavy pauldrons went over the coat, followed by a pair of thick gauntlets. He refastened the straps that held the mighty sword on his back, relishing the weight of it all. It felt good. He lifted the helm from the top of the arming rack, lowering it over his head and striding back out toward the wall, the heavy thump of his footfalls bringing a smile unbidden to his face. He fought to control it, and by the time he hit the sunlight again, he was stoic.

"Squads, to your positions!" he bellowed as he strode out of the keep. "Stretchers to the stairs!" The three other members of his command squad met him halfway to the wall, matching step with him as they ascended the stairs.

"Rose," he turned to her, "Tower." The girl nodded. "Bryce, walk the wall. You're on fear, anyone that seems important to their morale."

"Suits me." There was a ghost of a smile in the assassin's voice.

"Oss. East wall. Plug gaps and take out problems. I'll take the west, over the gate."

"Got it."

"They're nervous." Rose observed, glancing at the mercenaries manning the walls. She turned and started toward the tower, speaking over her shoulder. "You should probably say something."

Zeb drew his sword, pacing up and down the wall before the line of archers. A twitch here, a shuffling of feet there, eyes darting from side to side, Rose had been right. The men were nervous. He tensed his shoulders and continued, pacing like a caged lion.

"All our lives," he began, regarding the mercenaries arrayed along the wall, "we are told that we have limits. There are some things men cannot do. No man can change the world." He gestured to the flawless white ranks of the Templars approaching the walls. "No force could stand against the armies of Sharn. It's all a lie."

The men looked at him, and he pulled the helmet clear to lock eyes with them each in turn.

"Limits are what _they_ teach us to keep us down. Look at them, the men arrayed against us." he pointed his sword at the advancing ranks. "An entire army in the color of surrender," he almost spat the words. "_**They**_ have limits, because they believe they do. They believe they must be weak, because their god is so much stronger than they are." He locked eyes with one of the archers. "_**I**_ have no limits. Do you?" The man didn't answer. Zeb turned toward Osias, leveling his sword at the slender swordsman on the adjacent wall. "Do you?"

"No." Oss called back, "I have no limits."

"Black clad!" he roared. "Do we have limits!?"

"NO!" their voices shouted back. "WE HAVE NO LIMITS!"

"The deeds of one great warrior can change a battle!" He was bellowing now. His voice raised so the foremost ranks of the enemy army could hear him. "You have all seen this. Most of you have done this. One _**real**_ warrior can change a battle, and there are _**two hundred**_ of you standing with me now!" A roar of approval erupted from the black clad ranks.

"So let them come!" he laughed. "Let them bring their limits. Let them bring their faith, and cough and wheeze their way up our wall. Let them come!"

"LET THEM COME!" the two hundred voices roared over the plain.

"Do you hear us, you bastards!?" he roared over the wall. "We are the Black Clad, and will take everything you can throw at us, and we will give you nothing but blood and death!"

"Blood and Death!" the Blackclad roared.

"Blood and Death!" he repeated.

"BLOOD AND DEATH!" the roar seemed to shake the ground beneath them.

"Black Clad!" he roared, raising his sword in the signal for the archers to draw. Bowstrings were pulled back, and archers stepped forward to sight down shafts toward the advancing ranks. He let the moment linger for a couple heartbeats before roaring, "BLOOD AND DEATH!"

The blade came down, and the first bloody day began.

.

.

.

The first of the Blackclad to fall was named Grak. After three long, bloody hours of smashed ladders, sliced ropes and storms of arrows, the Templars claimed their first kill. After taking four arrows to the chest and a sword to the gut, Grak dropped his blade. Wrapping his arms around the two Templars trying to clamber onto the wall in front of him, he took them over the edge, their combined weight pulping half a squad when they hit the ground. Seeing this, Zeb brought his sword up. He rested his forehead to the crosspiece for half a moment as the Blackclad cheered, paying their respects for a death well-earned.

Hours later, Zeb narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the state of the wall. It was holding, but the men were tiring. They'd need to rotate out soon. The stretcher bearers were performing their job well, and the wounded were being carted off in good order. A volley of crossbow bolts felled five of the Blackclad rushing to dislodge a ladder to Zeb's left. The gap it created was enough for a helmetless swordsman to vault onto the stone of the fortress. Blackclad moved to rush him, but Zeb raised a hand.

"Mine." He said coldly. "Get rid of the ladder."

The man was good, no doubt about that. His balance was exceptional, and his bladework was efficient, if uninspired. Zeb caught himself settling into his old fighting style, and tensed all the muscles in his left arm to hold himself back. His swings became brutal and efficient, lacking any sort of elegance. Between this and the pain in his head, it was taking all his willpower to keep himself going.

He locked blades with his opponent, their faces inches apart. The Templar took a breath to speak, and Zeb's helmeted head smashed into his unprotected face, crushing his nose and breaking teeth. The Templar fell backwards. Zeb grabbed a handful of his white tabard, hauling him into a second headbutt, and then a third. The Templar dropped to the stone, gagging on blood and teeth. The mercenary reached down to lift the choking man from the ground. He hefted the armored body over his head before hurling it over the ramparts and down into the army below.

"Blood and death!" he roared, and the Blackclad roared with him. They fought with renewed ferocity, the small victory lighting a fire in their hearts.

"Rotate out!" he roared. "Give our brothers a chance for some blood!" Fresh faces came up to the ramparts in threes and fours, clapping their comrades on the shoulders as they came in to take their places. Within three minutes, the wall garrison was fresh and unblooded, and the battle began anew.

_You can't fight at full power_, he scolded himself inwardly, cutting a rope and hearing the gratifying sound of armored forms slamming into the ground below. _They can't know who you are yet._

That single word lingered in his mind, and he felt a smile tugging the corners of his lips, unseen behind the cold faceplate of his helm, as the battle continued.

_Yet._

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.

.

The butcher's bill for the first day was light. Twelve dead, another twenty wounded, half of whom would be back on the wall at sunrise. They'd lowered a few men on ropes to retrieve the bodies of Grak and the other few Blackclad who had fallen over the edge. An estimated nine hundred Templars killed or wounded. A fair showing for the first day, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

The pyres for the dead Blackclad were roaring now. He'd personally overseen the burial rituals. Each was different, some had gold coins set on their eyes, some had the weapons of their personal tally laid at their feet, some were in full armor, others draped in cloth. No matter the tradition, the flames roared in unison. There was a lesson somewhere in that, but he was too tired to see it. The Templar dead were given no such honor, simply stripped of anything useful and hurled from the wall to rot on the ground below.

He needed seventy men to hold the wall, and twice that would allow him to rotate the squads and give the men some rest. At this rate things would start to get bloody for the Blackclad in two or three more days. The Templars still had over fifteen thousand men. The fortress would be out of arrows in two days, which would blunt their teeth. The Templars would run low on water in another three or four. Then they'd have to start attacking nonstop, and things would be hell for a day or two until the thirst set in.

He scowled as all the numbers and factors wound into a knot, seeming to embolden the ever present headache. He brought his hands up to his throbbing temples, rubbing at them in some vain hope that it would help. It didn't. He listened for any presence nearby, stopping all motion and slowing his breathing.

Nothing.

He let his control slip for a moment, easing back until his power radiated out from him in an invisible wave. The pressure in his head eased immediately, and he had to fight a sigh of relief, slumping down to sit with his back to the wall.

"I must say, I'm impressed you've been able to keep up the brute fighting shtick." Osias spoke from nowhere, his voice cutting through the moment. "It must take concentration."

Oss knew who he actually was. Of course he knew. It was difficult to hide much from someone with the instincts of a human and the senses of an elf. He had figured it out the first time they'd hit a town. Apparently Zeb stared at the wanted posters too much. He'd since corrected that.

"I lock my left arm," Zeb said simply. "It helps." Oss gave him a look. He gave him _the_ look. "It makes my headaches worse." He admitted. The power was something Oss didn't know. All he'd told the slender man was that it gave him headaches to control it. "I've almost gotten marked half a dozen times because stopping the hit dead would have taken too much finesse."

"You look peaceful." The thin man observed. "More peaceful than I've seen you."

"We don't have the men to hold this fortress for more than a week," Zeb let his eyes drift shut contentedly. "Odds are we'll die."

"Then we'll die." Osias said, utterly unconcerned. "I'm not hearing the question yet."

"I can stay. Tell them who I really am. That will draw the army, and…" he trailed off.

"…and any undesirables from our own ranks," Osias finished. "You'd die to give us time?"

"Dying is easy." Zeb muttered with a nod toward the pyres. "Ask them."

The slender man exhaled sharply, smirking. It was the closest thing he ever did to a laugh. "You still didn't ask."

"Do you want to leave, Oss?" he asked finally. "Take Rose and find a place in the forest?"

"I swore to follow you."

"And if I release you from that?"

"Honor isn't that simple." Oss said with a rare smile. "You can't get rid of it just because it's inconvenient. If you could, it wouldn't be worth anything."

"So you're staying." Zeb sighed.

"Pretty much," The smaller man nodded. "We're with you, Drake."

The man who had called himself Zeb felt his heart lurch as a wave of nostalgia hit him. It had been a while since he'd let anyone call him that. He glanced toward the keep, the girl they'd rescued was there, hiding in a doorway and watching them. He found himself smiling, and she returned the smile.

.

.

.

The second day passed much the same as the first, Rose and her archers reaped a horrific toll on the Templar ranks, and the walls held against the tide. They were smashing the ladders, but they couldn't be everywhere at once.

Eventually a squad of ten, led by a portly battle-priest, gained the wall. Their shields locked, their spears and swords held ready. Sanctified tower shields blunted Black Clad skill, and they slowly pushed the defenders away from the ladder.

"Forward, you dogs!" the portly man bellowed. "You shame the Creator with your cowar…" There was a dull thud, and the rest of the sentence became a wheezing rasp. The priest slumped face first to the stone, revealing Bryce behind him, blood slicking his punching daggers. The soldiers surrounded him.

"Oh, shit." The assassin said, looking stricken. "He seemed important. I'm sorry guys, my bad."

The circle of steel closed around him, but he twisted, and every blade met only empty air. The weapons pulled back for another attack, only to find that the man in their midst was nowhere to be found. The moment's confusion cost them, Zeb smashing into them from one side, and Oss coming from the other. They couldn't have been less alike in how they killed. Zeb powered his way through, his blade slamming through armor and flesh with raw power. Osias was a study in grace, never a misplaced step, never an overextension. He was always in the one place where his enemies didn't have a weapon, and his blade licked out to lay open arteries and throats with seemingly no effort at all. A swordsman loomed behind him, raising a blade, only to fall with a white-fletched arrow in his throat. Within three heartbeats the squad was dead, the ladder was smashed, and the wall belonged to the Black Clad again. A cheer resounded from the wall, and Oss nodded to Rose in her tower.

With that blow to morale, the Divine Army pulled back, their will sapped for the night.

"_Send more blood!"_ Zeb's roar echoed over the retreating ranks. _"My wall is still thirsty!" _ Black Clad laughter echoed into the setting sun.

"Get some rest!" he called back to the fortress. "I want a full count on wounded! Volunteers for first watch and gate duty!" A lean form approached in his peripheral vision, and he turned.

"How many did you get?" Bryce asked him, smirking.

"Thirty nine," Zeb said without hesitation.

"Oh, that's no good." The assassin mused, sounding distraught. "If you don't get at least forty kills in a skirmish like that you should just give up the game."

"How many did _you _get?"

The assassin sheathed his blades and seemed to ponder a moment.

"Twelve, I think?" his brow furrowed, "Nope, Thirteen! Right, the fat bastard in the last wave. He had no idea what he was doing."

"I got three kills for each of yours." The big man deadpanned.

"Yeah, but mine were all _**important**_, you see." Bryce's tone became consoling. "Some of us have to worry about the long game while you're scything through the minions."

Zeb tried to glare at him, but he couldn't stay angry. A smile split his glower and he started laughing. He clapped Bryce on the shoulder and moved across the wall, moving to the base of the tower, where Oss and Rose stood.

"They'll hit the gate tomorrow." He muttered, by way of greeting.

"How do you know that?" Rose asked, arching an eyebrow.

"If they get thrown back from the wall a third time, their morale will break," Oss answered the question, "so they need to try something new."

"It'll break just fine when they see what we have waiting behind it." Zeb said, with a chuckle. "I can't wait to see the looks on their faces."

"We'll need men hauling rocks all night to have it ready." Bryce spoke, appearing beside them again.

"Make it happen, then." Zeb said simply, moving toward the keep and stripping his helmet and gauntlets off. He stopped when he felt a hand gently rest on his shoulder. "What is it, Rose?"

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Do not take the broken girl in. I can't read her. That's never good."

"Your concerns are noted," Zeb said dismissively.

.

.

.

Arrows rained on the twenty Templars manhandling the ram into place. The walls were holding, so ramming the gate was the latest in a series of gambits to try and take the fortress. Scores of them fell, but another body always rushed to fill the gap. The ram actually came within a few yards of the gate, before the bodies were too many, and the Templars crewing the ram had to stop to clear them. Time and time again, this happened. Every time one distinguished himself, barking orders and inspiring the ram-bearers to greater feats of might, an arrow from Rose silenced him. Every time they drew near, hurled rocks and boiling oil sent them back.

Keeping the wall clear had been bloody work. The new assault on the gate meant the archers were occupied, so Oss and Zeb led their men in repelling every Templar who ascended a ladder.

But they still couldn't be everywhere.

A squad of Templar drove a wedge into the Blackclad lines, making way for a man in elaborate robes to stand on the wall. He opened his arms wide and began to chant, and the soldiers around him locked shields to hold the Blackclad at bay. Two circles of white runes flared into being on the stones nearby, and the Blackclad leapt back to get away from them. The priest continued to chant, the runes pulsing with each syllable. The light seemed to flow upwards, coalescing into a huge shape over each circle. Suddenly the light was gone, and two massive lions, easily five feet at the shoulder and armored in silver, stood where the runes had been. The Blackclad formed up and presented a wall of steel to the beasts, which padded forward, snarling.

"Blackclad!" Zeb's voice boomed. "Clear a path!" The huge mercenary strode toward the beasts, his sword over one shoulder. He felt Bryce appear in his shadow. "Take the sorcerer." He ordered coldly, feeling Bryce's presence vanish an instant later. "I'll take the beasts."

He cleared the line of mercenaries and the first beast roared and lunged for him. Without breaking stride, he took the blow of the massive paw on an armored shoulder and rammed his blade to the hilt into the beast's broad chest. The lion staggered, and he strode past it, releasing his grip on the blade and letting the Blackclad fall on the stricken beast with swords and spears.

He locked eyes with the second, a clear challenge, and it snarled. The beast's massive jaws lunged for his throat. He swayed aside, bringing his elbow down onto the back of its head. The blow did little damage, but stunned the beast for half a second. He wrapped the arm over the back of its armored neck and held on, smashing his other fist into the side of its head. The sound of metal impacting metal was almost deafening. He felt massive claws rake the back of his coat, but the rings held. He delivered another thunderous fist to the side of its head, buckling the metal of the silver barding. The lion's legs almost gave out, and he released his grip on its neck, turning his hips to put all his weight into a third hit. The beast staggered, and he raised both hands over his head to bring down like a sledgehammer. There was a sudden blast of light, and he was thrown onto his back. The beast was gone. Zeb turned toward the sorcerer, knowing what he'd see.

Bryce stood over the man's corpse, looking disinterested. There was a clatter of metal on stone as Zeb's sword fell from where it had been lodged in the second beast. The huge mercenary smashed his gauntleted hands together twice, and began advancing on the Templars who had made the wall during the distraction. The Black Clad swarmed past him, a roar of victory on their lips and fire in their hearts. The Templars were swept from the wall again.

A loud splintering crash drew their attention to the gate, a battering ram had finally closed the distance. Another crash, and Zeb could hear the timbers creak and crack as the massive ram did its work. "Focus on the gate!" he roared, and arrows rained down onto the ram and its crew. Templars fell, screaming, as hot oil was poured through holes in the stone to sear flesh. More of the Templars swarmed in, crushing their fellows underfoot as they maneuvered the ram back for another smash. Massive rocks caved in skulls and shattered bones as they were hurled from the battlements. A flaming arrow arced down to ignite the oil, and a fresh inferno leapt into being at the gate. The Templar forces fell back, dragging the battering ram with them, and the archers punished them for every step.

The oil burned hot and quick, but the soaked timbers of the gate didn't catch. The Templar force simply raised shields and waited, weathering the storm of arrows. The flames died down again, and with a roar, the Templars powered the ram toward the gate. Arrows fell, men died, but there was no stopping it this time. The ram impacted the cracked timbers with tremendous force, smashing a hole in the battered doors. The men carrying it backed up a few yards and brought it back in, smashing the gate to splinters.

The battlefield went silent as a tomb, as men rushed through the new opening, and then everything seemed to stop. The men at the gate weren't moving anymore. They were just milling in the center. None of the archers loosed a shot, and the ladders stayed unoccupied. Zeb found a sadistic smile peeling his lips back from his teeth. Ten feet behind the gate, there was nothing but a stone wall. Stone and mortar had sealed the tunnel into the fortress, and they'd kept going until it was as thick as the rest of the wall.

"HA HA HA HA HA," His slow, deliberate laughter began to peal out from his position above the gate. Bryce began to laugh too, and then Rose joined from the top of the tower. Soon all the Blackclad were roaring with laughter. The Templar army had sacrificed more than a thousand to take the gate, and there was nothing behind it but crushing disappointment. They laughed louder. Blades were lowered, arrows stayed in their quivers, and ladders were pushed from the wall with mocking gentleness. The Templars felt their veins fill with ice as their foes laughed at their plight. No retreat was sounded, no signal given, but the Templar army slowly and exhaustedly pulled back from the wall, as the will to fight bled out of them.

As the enemy army fell back, Zeb watched, savoring the despair of his enemies like a fine wine. Bryce appeared at his shoulder, disregard and apathy writ plain across his hawkish features. "You look bored, Bryce." he observed with a smile.

"I am," the assassin admitted. "Sieges don't suit me. No subtlety to them. It's like a child playing with toys. You just smash the two sides together until one breaks."

"So, hypothetically…" Zeb began, raising an eyebrow. "…if I were to ask you to ghost into their camp and put a few strategically placed holes in their water barrels?"

"That," Bryce began, as a broad, genuine smile split his face, "sounds like a _lot_ of fun."

"Their morale is hanging by a thread," Zeb said with a smirk.

"So why not cut it?" Bryce chuckled back.

"Be careful, assassin." Zeb said, locking arms with him, wrist-to-wrist.

"Ha!" Bryce scoffed. "They couldn't catch me if I was asleep."

"They could." The taller man said, turning to leave. "If you slept."

"Glass houses, swordsman." The assassin said, vaulting over the edge of the wall.

Zeb never heard him land. Blackclad were already carrying barrels of sawdust up to soak the blood from the stones, and casting the bodies of fallen Templars to smash onto the spikes below the wall.

The Blackclad dead were carried reverently to the area that had become their communal pyre. Wood was stacked, tinder was piled, oil was poured. As with the previous nights, Zeb personally oversaw the rituals for each of them before hurling a torch into the pyre. Their fallen brothers burned, and the third day came to a close.

After the fires had burnt out, he walked to his room in the top of the keep, already knowing what he'd find. She flew at him, her hands clamped around his sides, and she buried her face in his chest. He had no idea how to react, his arms slowly coming up to encircle her in a hug.

"What did I tell you about coming into my room?" he asked without anger.

"Idiot!" her muffled voice came at last. She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. "Why did you drop your sword when you fought that monster?" He opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent as she squeezed him harder. She sobbed. "What would I do if you died?"

"I don't know." He admitted softly, his hand moving up to stroke her hair. "None of us have much time."

"Promise me you won't do anything that reckless again!" she fumed, releasing him.

"You've seen me fight." He admitted, turning away, almost ashamed. "I pretty much just lurch from one reckless act to the next. Caution isn't really where I shine." He turned back to her and their lips met. The touch was light, but lingered. He broke the contact after a few seconds, uncomfortable at the desire he felt. Her arms wrapped around the back of his neck and held him there, and she looked deeply into his eyes.

"Don't die." She said simply, pulling him into another kiss. Where the first had been gentle, this kiss was hot and powerful, he felt a fire he'd long thought extinguished ignite in his blood. He wanted her more than anything at that moment. The kiss broke, and he backed away, turning to leave.

"Stay," she pleaded. "Please."

"I can't." he said simply.

"Can't, or won't?"

The pain in her voice broke his heart, but he strode from the room, stopping in his tracks as he left the door. The torches were out. The entire passageway was dark. He backed into the room, shutting and barring the door, taking in the sounds around him. The girl had distracted him, and he shook his head as he heard the soft breathing. The latch on the window was open. Something he'd have noticed right away if not for the girl.

"What's wrong?" she asked, looking confused.

"You can come out now." he said, tilting his head to the side and smiling without warmth.

A shape seemed to coalesce from the shadows in the far corner of the room. It blurred and grew, eventually becoming a lithe figure in leather armor, its shoulders and face obscured by a white cloak.

"Evening," Zeb said jovially, slowly moving from the door. "Which of the three of you thinks they can kill me?"

A blade arced for his neck as another figure materialized from the wall beside him. Dropping to one knee, he drew his boot knives and slammed one into this new attacker's neck as he rose. Spinning on his heel, he hurled the other with all his strength over the girl's shoulder, missing her by a few inches and hearing a satisfying 'thunk' as it buried itself in the target. A form seemed to fall out of the stone wall behind her, the knives in its hands falling uselessly to the ground.

Zeb drew the sword from his back and locked eyes with the first white-garbed killer, the one who hadn't moved yet.

The white cloak billowed out as a pair of ornately-wrought repeater crossbows emerged, and the air between them was filled with bolts as they loosed.

The sword flashed through a dazzling series of parries, deflecting every shot. The hailstorm of fire intensified. The sword in Zeb's hands moved like quicksilver, swatting every bolt aside, sending them clattering into the wall behind him. The fire seemed to darken as a chill swept through the room, and the storm of bolts ceased. Zeb stood unharmed, breathing heavily at the exertion. The sword came up, and Zeb settled into his old style, waiting for the next volley.

"I've seen that stance before." The last killer's eyes went wide. "You're…" The wide blade of the sword slammed into the man's chest, punching through to pin him to the wall.

"Shh." Zeb said coldly, their faces inches apart. He pulled the sword free and let the body slump to the floor. "Don't tell anyone."

.

.

.

As the sun set on the fourth day, even the least perceptive among the Blackclad realized that they weren't going to leave the fortress. The Templar camp had crept forward in the previous night, sealing the mountain pass completely. Today had been the most brutal fighting any of them had ever seen. There was a mania behind the Templar attacks now. They never stopped pushing their men toward the wall, and they fought possessed of a desperate abandon that took a heavy toll on their enemy. Thirty Blackclad dead, another twenty wounded.

He sat in the courtyard, slowly running a whetstone along the blade of his sword, methodically honing the nicks and notches from the edge. An axe had smashed into his side, the links of his coat holding, but the force of the blow cracked a rib and left a bruise the size of his fist. With each stroke of the whetstone, with each long motion of his arm, the rib ground painfully in his side. He relished it. It was keeping him awake, despite the attempted assassination stealing his chance to sleep the previous night. The Templar who'd swung the axe hadn't died well. The Blackclad had fought like lions, meeting manic fervor with cold fury. Nearly fifteen hundred of the Templar army had fallen, their desperation to get to the water robbing them of all caution. With the gate a foregone conclusion, Rose's archers had reaped another massacre as the men in white ground themselves against the wall.

He inspected the blade, blowing some of the metal dust from the freshly ground edge. It was back to its former glory. He lifted an oiled cloth from the kit beside him and polished the metal to an almost mirror sheen, giving it a few practice swings. Not enough metal lost to compromise the balance. He nodded with approval, sheathing the blade on his back. The battle was too close to call now. Bryce's success in the enemy camp had seen to that. What had started as a lost cause had become a fight to the end. All that remained was to see if the Blackclad could hold until the twinned torments of thirst and failure killed the Templar Army from within.

He stretched his back, and started toward the keep, stopping to pat a few shoulders and praise the Blackclad on some of the impressive kills he'd seen. He swapped stories with them, lifted cups, shared food, and moved on. The pyres had long since gone cold, and the mood behind the wall was somber.

Eventually he reached the door to his chamber, and he ran a hand through his unkempt hair before opening it. She was there again, and rushed to him, her arms sliding into his coat to wrap around him. He winced at the pressure on the broken rib, and she loosened her grip instantly.

"You were amazing," she beamed.

He chuckled, squeezing her tighter.

"Here," She said with a smile, taking his hand and leading him to a small table. A straight razor, a set of shears, and a small bronze mirror were laid before a basin of clean water.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"I want to see your face." She said, stroking his bearded cheek. "You're younger than you act, aren't you?"

He sighed, nodding his head. There was no point arguing with the truth, he was too tired. He shook his head. This was silly. He had a defense to oversee, men to inspire. _But,_ the thought came to his mind unbidden. _If you both die tomorrow, would you regret not doing this?_

He moved to the basin, splashing water on his face to clean off the blood and soot. His armor came off, along with his coat and shirt, revealing the patchwork of scars that covered his massive torso. A pattern of fresh blood and bruises painted his chest and arms. He took up the shears, working in quick, efficient movements to shorten his hair back to the length he preferred; long enough to keep his head warm, short enough that nobody could grab it in a fight. He took up the razor and mirror, and started the painstaking process of ridding himself of the beard that had been his camouflage for the past year.

With each draw of the blade, he saw a little of his old face return. The girl stepped behind him and he tensed, involuntarily shifting to a stronger grip on the razor. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, gently kneading the muscles as he continued. He ran a hand over his face, checking for any rough patches. Splashing water onto his face, he looked into the mirror, smiling as he saw himself again.

Zeb tilted the mirror, locking eyes with the girl briefly before setting it back on the table. He busied himself cleaning the razor and dabbing the water from his features with a piece of cloth. One of her arms draped over his shoulder, the other wrapping around the uninjured side of his chest. She held him tight, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"We could run away," she whispered, trailing off. "Just leave it all behind..."

Her smooth cheek brushed his. The touch was feather-light and intoxicating. He leaned into it, letting his eyes drift shut and savoring the simple human contact.

"You have no idea how good that sounds," he admitted, sadly. "You're like fire in my blood, girl."

"But you won't," she said, sounding defeated.

"I won't." he agreed. "I belong here."

"Then I belong with you." She said, turning to nuzzle the side of his neck. The warm breath on his skin kindled the fire in his blood into caged lightning, and he turned, letting their lips meet. Gone was the gentleness of the previous night. This was raw and passionate.

As shed clothes rained to the ground all around them, he let go. He stopped fighting against what he wanted, and for a few hours, lost himself to something other than war.

.

.

.

The whisper of a blade being drawn snapped him awake, and his hands reflexively shot up to the knife over his throat. The blade sliced deep, parting the flesh over his collarbone, but stopped when it hit bone. It was one of his knives, one he didn't often use. He recognized the texture on the grip. He snarled, his eyes taking a moment to focus through the pain. Finally locking with…

No.

A pair of dazzling green eyes stared back at him with cold indifference, framed by short red hair.

"No."

There was no warmth in the eyes anymore. She looked at him like a hunter looks at an animal. He felt something die inside him. The hollow feeling in his gut was back, wholly unwelcome, yet strangely comforting. It was like a long lost friend. "No." he rasped, as blood began to run from the slice across his chest.

"I'd heard rumors that you were around here, and then when the Sharn guys picked me up I figured I'd let them have their way and get some information out of them." She spoke coldly, almost professionally. A cruel smirk lifted the side of her mouth. "Sheer luck you were the one to _save_ me. I wasn't sure until your thin friend used your real name in the courtyard the other night."

"You're a bounty hunter?" the despair he heard in his own voice filled him with self-loathing.

"Think of the envy I'll get. The most wanted man on the continent spent his last night in this life with me." She mused. "You were really good. And trust me, I've sampled more than most. The paralytic should be working by now."

He glanced down as his hand fell away from hers. There was a purplish resin coating the blade of the dagger she held. It was smeared with blood from the wound. "Nightfang venom?"

"Nightfang venom." She said, a disappointed tone to her voice, raising the knife over his chest. "It was all I could find out here. Usually I'd use something more expensive for a high-profile mark like you, but at least I'll make it quick. Goodbye, Drake. You were fun while you lasted. Not many men can love a girl like me."

The knife came down, but stopped an inch from its mark. His massive hand gripped her wrist, painfully tight. She tried to wrench her arm free, but it wouldn't budge.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've been dosed with Nightfang Venom?" he slurred, his voice pained. He sat up, leaving her straddling his lap. His grip on her wrist tightened painfully, and her hand spasmed, dropping the dagger. His other hand swept it up.

"Don't kill me!" she shrieked, and for a fraction of an instant he saw the terrified face of the girl he'd rescued. His grip slackened involuntarily. Her free fist punched the broken rib, the sudden pain putting stars in his eyes. He reeled, and she spun away. She vaulted backwards with a cruel smile, diving out the window as he saw the rope tied to the frame.

Staggering to the window, he saw her dark form flit over the wall and descend another rope out of the fortress.

Zeb powered to his feet, his resistance to the venom giving him some control. He staggered down the hall to the chamber that Rose and Oss had chosen, and slammed his fist into the door. There was the sound of motion inside, and Oss's face appeared, lined with fatigue. Zeb collapsed forward, his weight bearing the door open as he slumped to the ground, bleeding. He let darkness take him, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

A sharp smell in his nose snapped him awake, and the numbness in his limbs told him he hadn't been out more than a few seconds. The searing pain of the wound across his chest brought back what had happened, and he let out a wordless groan of anguish. He was seated on the floor, his back propped against a wall. Rose was pressing cloth to the long slice across his chest, and he weakly raised his hands to add pressure.

"The girl…" he rasped, hating the shaking he heard in his voice.

"I'll make sure she's safe." Oss stood and bolted for the door. Zeb's arm shot out and caught him.

"No…" he wheezed, fighting the paralyzing agent.

"She did this…" Rose whispered, her eyes going wide.

The bleeding man nodded tiredly. He saw a moment of genuine anger cross Osias's face before his calm facade fell back into place. "Bounty hunter," Zeb choked out. "She had a rope tied to the wall." The slender swordsman nodded and left without a word. He returned a minute later. Gods, he was fast.

"It's cut." Oss said simply. "She covered her tracks at the base of the wall."

Zeb gave a shallow nod. Oss took over holding the bandages while Rose gathered up a needle and a long strand of twine. The three of them sat in silence for a while, Rose's hands expertly drawing the edges of the wound together with swift stitches of twine.

"You look like you again." Rose said, breaking the silence at last with a nod toward his shaven face. As she spoke, she tied the end of the twine and cut the excess off with a small blade.

"I _feel_ like me again," he said bitterly. "It's been a while since someone tried to slit my throat."

"I didn't mean it like that," she said defensively, smearing something that smelled like wet leaves over the stitched wound.

"I know what you meant, Rose," he muttered. "You warned me. I didn't listen."

"You're a guy," she said bluntly. He laughed, but the sound was cold. She handed him a small vial of blue fluid. "Drink that, and give the balm a few hours to bind that slice together," She said simply. "Then do whatever it is you're planning."

"Find Bryce." He wheezed to Oss, downing the contents of the vial and gagging at the taste. "And tell him to gather a few of the men who know how to kill."

Oss nodded and headed for the door.

"Oss." Zeb's growl stopped him. "Not fight. Kill."

.

.

.

He clamped a hand over the man's mouth and slid the knife to the hilt in his chest, skewering the sleeping Templar's heart. After a few seconds the prone man's eyes glazed over and he went still. Bryce had done the same to the tent's other occupant, and the two of them slipped into the night, ghosting into the next and repeating the process. It was dirty work, and by the time they'd slit and stabbed half the distance to their target, he was covered to the wrists in blood. It wasn't enough. Not nearly. The rage in him burned brighter than ever.

He let it. The burning anger filled his body with strength as the last tingles of the paralytic faded from his fingertips. He moved, and he killed. Several times, Bryce had signaled him to stop as a patrol wandered past the tents. The patrols had to be left alone. So they waited, and elsewhere the few men Bryce had picked out moved among the Sharn Templars, doing likewise. After what seemed like an age of covered mouths and thrashing legs, they arrived at the center of the encampment.

The Deacon's tent was surrounded by earthworks. A wall of dirt and stone some six feet high had been built around the sides of the oversized structure.

Bryce tapped his shoulder twice and vanished, their signal to wait. A small noise sounded on the opposite side of the tent, and the guards turned. Zeb moved silently, running low and vaulting over the wall of earth. He landed and stopped, waiting for any sound. Nothing. He stood and quietly walked to the entrance of the tent. "Deacon." He scowled, striding into the main chamber, "A word with you…"

The interior of the tent was opulent to the point of excess. Gold was everywhere, and a few braziers burned low, casting the whole scene in a dull orange light. There was someone in the bed, too small for the Deacon, and a sinking feeling entered his gut. He pulled the covers back, revealing a pale shoulder, a slight frame and short red hair. He growled, actually growled, and the sound woke her. She shivered, reaching for the covers, and he ripped them from the bed. Her pale form looked exactly as he remembered. Her eyes fluttered open, widening in terror when they alighted on the bloodstained swordsman. He calmly reached up and grabbed the hilt of the weapon on his back. He drew the blade, and the girl's mouth worked wordlessly in horror. He brought the sword down…

And stopped. The edge was just a hair's breadth from her neck, but his arm wouldn't follow the motion through. He couldn't do it. Some stupid part of him still cared. "_DAMMIT!_" he roared. He stayed that way for a few moments, before Bryce appeared at the tent's flap.

"We need to leave now," he whispered. "They will have heard that. Did you get the Deacon?"

"He isn't here." The big man said coldly. He turned to leave, glaring murder over his shoulder. The two of them exited the tent, only to come face to face with a line of shining white cloth and silver armor. The tent was completely surrounded by flawless ranks of Sharn spearmen. He brought his sword up into a guard. Bryce drew something from one of his pouches.

"The others are dead, then." The assassin sighed to himself.

"Lay down your arms." The voice came from a man wearing exquisitely ornamented armor. Every single panel and plate was engraved with gold filigree, the lines of sacred scripture seeming to glow in the torchlight. He held a sword with a blade of purest gold, and leveled it at Zeb. "And your deaths will be swift."

"You don't know what swift is." Bryce chuckled, palming what looked like a small lump of clay and throwing it to the ground at his feet. A massive explosion of smoke billowed from the impact, covering the entire area. Zeb tried to gain his bearings, to no avail. After a moment, he saw Bryce emerge from the smoke beside him.

"This way." His voice said calmly, and led him through the camp.

Their flight back to the wall was fast and frantic. Several times they had to duck into the shadows to avoid being seen. Bryce made strange gestures with his hands, and the shadows seemed to wrap around the two of them. Light was almost reluctant to find them, seeming to slide around them rather than illuminate. Shrouded like this, they made their way to the forward edge of the Sharn encampment, through the silent tents that marked their previous path.

The wall came into view. Just as Zeb was about to let out his breath, a squad of seven men stepped into their path, blocking the way with spears and shields held at the ready. The sounds of pursuit from behind were growing louder, and Zeb drew his sword. The spears came at him. He batted two aside, but the third scored a deep gash across his side. Then he was among them. His sword hammered into the visor of the first, collapsing his skull. Releasing his grip with his main hand, Zeb's fist clamped around the second Templar's throat, crushing his windpipe with a sickening noise. The third, the one that had marked him, stabbed for his body again. He turned the blow aside on the links of his coat, spinning low to slam the edge of his sword into the man's groin. The severed artery erupted in a dark red spray, before ebbing quickly. The man fell with a scream.

_Dammit._

Bryce was still kneeling, his brow furrowed in concentration. As the two remaining spearmen came at Zeb, the shadows seemed to billow around the assassin, swallowing him completely. A bolt of pure darkness shot between the spearmen, quicker than a crossbow bolt, and they both fell, clutching their necks as blood sprayed from the gap between breastplate and helmet. The darkness dissipated, and the assassin stood over them, blades dripping with gore.

"Let's go."

They sprinted out of the encampment, eating up the distance between the tents and the looming form of the wall. The first rays of dawn were just lighting the horizon when they seized the lowered ropes and began their climb to the battlements.

_DAMN IT ALL!_

_._

_._

_._

The next day was a holy day in the Sharn calendar. No blood would be spilled by the faithful, so they stayed in their camp, chanting prayers and lighting pyres for the hundreds that had been taken by the Blackclad infiltrators in the night. Zeb's expression was thunderous as he paced the wall, willing the enemy to come so he could let loose the rage that kept building and building inside him. No attack came, and he paced well into the night, wanting to scream his anger to the heavens.

The sixth day, at midday, there was still no attack. The Templars seemed in no hurry to engage this time, and Zeb's rage continued to build. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, there was movement in the enemy camp. A circle of sixteen priests formed, just outside bow range, and a figure in resplendent silver armor paced to the center of the circle. Zeb recognized the man who had threatened them in the camp. He knelt, sword point-down, as if in prayer, and the circle began to chant. The clouds parted and a radiant beam of sunlight illuminated the kneeling figure, the light cascading from his armor was painful to look upon. Almost blinding, the circle continued their chant and the radiance grew. After several minutes, each priest took it in turn to walk into the circle and lay their hands upon the knight, blessing him.

"Using crude sorcery and pretending it's the blessing of their god." Rose scoffed. "Disgusting."

"Can you take him?" Zeb asked, simply.

She sighted along an arrow, drawing the bowstring back. "I can try, but if all the cantrips and wards they're putting on him are worth anything it won't hurt him."

"Don't waste the arrow." Bryce said with that ever-present smirk. "I'll take him down once he hits the wall."

Ten minutes later, the Living Saint of the Templar army set foot on the wall at the farthest end from Zeb and Oss, arrows glancing harmlessly from his armor as they had for his entire advance. At his heels, the Templar army marched, the ladders and ropes coming with renewed vigor. As his boots landed on the stones, he drew the golden blade and began carving a path through the Blackclad arrayed before him. Men fell like grass before his blade, the golden sword seeming to move of its own accord to seek out gaps in armor and weak points in chain.

Bryce streaked toward him, dancing in the shadows, always alighting in the spots where there were no weapons. The saint looked straight at him, pulling the golden blade from the neck of a slain axeman. Those radiant eyes followed every motion the assassin made. That was new. The assassin weaved through a series of attacks that was beautiful to watch, waiting for the opportune moment. It came, and he lined up the hit that would drive one of his blades through his opponent's breastplate and into his heart. Everything fell into place, and he executed the maneuver to perfection. The radiant aura around the saint seemed to pulse brighter, and the weapon shattered, fragments of metal embedding in the assassin's arm and shoulder. The momentary distraction was followed by what felt like a punch to his gut. He rolled with the impact, but it didn't send him back like it should have.

"That's not… mine," Bryce muttered, staring down at the blade embedded in his abdomen. The saint withdrew his weapon, kicking the assassin in the chest and sending him hurtling back. He crumpled, falling to a sitting position with his back resting against the parapet. A cheer went up among the Templars that had gained the wall. The saint advanced on the fallen assassin, but a huge form interposed itself between them.

"Not happening." Zeb said coldly. As he spoke, the golden blade lanced toward his heart, a mirror of the blow that felled Bryce. He turned the blow aside, the sword slicing across the outside of his left arm. He nodded to himself.

_Enough is enough_. _ Fuck this. It's time._

Another thrust, aimed for his heart. The attack was perfect. The knight's weapon was an extension of his body. A flawless parry stopped the attack dead, the huge mercenary moving with a skill he hadn't yet demonstrated. Before the saint could contemplate this, a gauntleted fist thundered into his jaw. The backhanded blow lifted him from his feet, his sword falling from nerveless fingers. A curious flying sensation took over, and he impacted the wall of the tower, knocking the wind from his lungs. His opponent moved to the fallen blade, kicking it toward him and pacing like a caged lion.

"Pick it up." Zeb said icily. "I'll not kill any more unarmed men today."

"That was a dishonorable blow." The saint muttered, wrenching the damaged helm off and meeting his gaze. The man was unremarkable, dark-haired and looking to be in his early thirties, but even his skin seemed to glow with an inner radiance.

"Slitting your throat would have been a dishonorable blow." The mercenary growled. "That was a _challenge_."

"Knights of the True Faith!" the saint called, his voice refined. "Hold!"

"Blackclad!" Zeb bellowed at the same moment. "Weapons down!"

All fighting on the wall ceased in a matter of moments. Soldiers from both sides backing away to clear a wide berth around the two combatants. The helmetless Saint retrieved his fallen weapon, and they began to circle one another, pacing slowly. They sized each other up, noting how the other moved and balanced. A slight limp in one leg, a stiffness in the armor of a shoulder joint. In a matter of moments they had mapped their opponent's motions completely.

"How did you make that block?" The shining knight asked. "I've been studying you the entire battle. You're good, but you're not _**that**_ good."

"And you're skilled," Zeb admitted. "But the spells woven by your sorcerers seem to be doing the lion's share of the work."

"I am the ordained champion of this army," the knight said calmly. "My power comes from my faith."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," The big man smiled maliciously. "I think my _squire_ would become a hero if I had a circle of witches ordain_** him**_ that hard." That struck a nerve. The attack came seemingly without warning. The sword held in a relaxed grip at the knight's side was suddenly arcing toward Zeb's throat. The parry was equally swift, the blade stopping inches from its mark and holding.

"What is your name, Sellsword?" the Saint asked, testing his defenses with a series of lightning-fast thrusts. "I must know."

"Lately I go by Zeb." He admitted. "Why?"

"Honor demands it, no man has ever blocked three of my attacks." The gilded Saint said, though his posture and tone showed how little regard he had for his opponent. "You face Raneth, Sword-Saint of the one true faith, Champion of the Sharn Templar army, Grey Wolf of the North, Lord of the Northern plains, Right Hand of the Deacon."

"I have no fancy titles to match with yours. Your leaders call me all sorts of things these days. I am the Leader of the Black Clad Mercenaries, and of the ruin you now stand in. But my real name is Drake."

The Saint's eyes widened slightly at the admission, and a ripple of murmured disbelief spread from the men watching the fight. "You cannot be him. You are too young to be the most wanted man in all of Sharn."

"Can't I?" Drake took off his helm, casting it to the side. He let the entire wall see his shaven face, the short hair and jawline that so many secondhand descriptions and wanted posters had tried to capture. He let the rage of the past day take him, and his hands practically trembled with the force of it. His voice went cold as a tomb. "Come and find out."

Raneth sent a crescent of steel toward the big man's neck with a flawless attack, the block that stopped it felt like hitting a castle wall. The attack just stopped dead, all the force ringing back up his arm. A chill crept up the back of his neck, and the world seemed to darken around the two of them.

"Have you ever fought someone so skilled," the big man's voice was eerily calm, "that he could actually put false openings in his style?" Raneth's golden blade traced a dazzling pattern through the air, moving faster than the eye could follow. Every swing was stopped dead, every thrust was turned aside with a minimum effort. "…someone who actually had to _hold back _to avoid unnecessary attention?"

All around the two combatants, the warriors watching the duel noticed the glow surrounding the saint fading. He looked less radiant. His swings lacked the grace of before. His armor was nicked and dented in places. His lip was split where the outlaw's challenge had hit him. The luminescence faded, slowly dulling, until he was just another man in armor.

"Someone," Drake continued, glancing down to the slice across his bicep. "Who would actually take _wounds_, just to lull you into that false confidence. Have you ever fought such a man?"

They locked blades, and the big man stared him in the eyes. Raneth was breathing heavily as they both strained to push the other back.

"Because up until now…" the mercenary was interrupted by another lightning fast series of attacks, every one parried, turned aside, or sidestepped. Drake lashed out with a gauntleted fist, the force of the blow denting the knight's breastplate and driving the air from his lungs. His legs buckled and he fell forward, wheezing against the pressure of his deformed armor, right into a rising knee. The blow hit him under the jaw and sent him rocking back up to his heels. His eyes came up, locking with the emotionless orbs of the man towering over him. "_…you have been._"

Raneth steadied himself, and the next three attacks came in a blur, Drake's longsword singing through the air at a blistering speed. The first shattered the knight's left arm at the shoulder, carving a deep rent into the flesh. The second took his sword hand off just below the elbow. The third, slammed the flat of the blade into the buckled breastplate, cracking the metal. The knight fell to his knees. He rolled to his side, staring at the stump of his right arm, his mind refusing to comprehend the act.

"Get up."

He staggered to his feet, breathing ragged, pain from his wounds blurring his vision. An armored boot like a battering ram slammed into his broken breastplate. The force of the blow cracked the metal further and shattered most of his ribs. He fell back with a strangled gurgle.

"Get up." Drake repeated. Raneth tried, but his battered body sank back to the ground with a groan, blood pumping from the stump of his sword arm. Drake leaned down, grabbing the neck of the knight's shattered breastplate and lifting him off his feet. He held Raneth over the edge of the battlements and dropped his sword, holding out an empty hand toward Bryce. The dying assassin tossed his remaining punching dagger to him. Raneth tried to speak, his teeth gritted against the pain.

"You're…" the saint's eyes were screwed shut with agony. His voice was a hoarse croak. "You're really him."

"Rot and die." Drake snarled, releasing his grip on the Saint as he brought his other hand into a massive uppercut. Bryce's punching dagger came up under the Saint's jaw, the tip punching through meat and bone to emerge from the top of his head. The body tensed for a moment, then went limp, hanging on the blade in the big man's grip.

The silence that fell over the battlefield seemed almost supernatural in its intensity. It held for several seconds. Every warrior from each side stood, transfixed by the sight of the hanging body that had seemed so radiant and invincible just moments before. With a venomous disregard on his face, Drake tossed Raneth's body over the battlements, pacing away and nodding as he heard it impact on the sharpened stakes below. His chest swelled as he took in a deep breath.

"_Is this the best you have for me!?_" the roar echoed over the plains, carrying easily over the silent battlefield, back to the encampment. The pure unfettered rage in that voice filled mercenary hearts with fire, and Templar hearts with ice. "_I'm the most wanted man in your country, and you send this __**dog**__ to try and best me?!_" Drake turned to the Templars still on the wall and pointed Bryce's gore-soaked blade at the closest. "You."

The man visibly started at the sudden gesture. "Y… yes?"

"Get off my wall. We're done for the night. All of you." The big man snarled. "Go tell your Deacon exactly what you just saw, so he can decide which _mighty champion_ he wishes to send to his death next. Tell him to send me something _worth_ fighting. Then make your peace with your god, because _tomorrow I come for you_. That is an order, not a request." The hatred in that voice was scathing, and the Templars all stood, still as statues, looking terrified. He retrieved his sword, the sudden motion startling them. The men all moved as one, milling toward the few ladders left intact and descending them as fast as they could. Once the Templars had retreated, Drake moved to Bryce's side, returning the bloody blade to him.

"Heh," the assassin chuckled, a small trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth. "That was beautifully done. Where's Oss?" Drake waved the slender man over. Oss knelt by the dying assassin. Bryce slowly fished a gold coin from one of his pouches, holding it up to the slender swordsman. "You… win." The assassin's eyes drooped, losing focus.

There was a long, pained silence, and Osias took the coin, gently closing Bryce's eyes.

"He bet me you'd have to reveal yourself within the first day." Osias said, sadly. "I said it'd be longer."

"He knew?"

"I would say so. He was hired to kill you." The slender man said simply, pocketing the coin. "He stayed because following you is… what were his exact words?" Osias's brow furrowed with distaste, " _A fuckload more entertaining than guild work._"

Drake stared down at the assassin, the rage ebbing to a dull flicker. Everything he thought he'd known about the man was a lie. He felt the anger fade away, that familiar feeling of emptiness swept into the void that it left. He'd miss the assassin. He stooped and lifted the body carefully.

"Gather the fallen." He said simply. "We owe our brothers a proper send-off."

Raneth had killed almost fifty Blackclad, including Bryce, before Drake had stopped him. With only sixty men left, they couldn't hold the wall. They would be spread too thin. Drake and Oss couldn't possibly kill enough to close all the gaps. They would be overrun. They couldn't fall back to the keep, either. That would give the Templars access to the wells.

He held the burning torch, raising it to the sky and tilting his head back to look at the stars. They were bright tonight. It seemed like the night was holding its breath and watching. He tossed the torch onto the mass pyre, and the sixty warriors that remained did likewise. The fire caught immediately, and the flames soon roared into the night, lighting the entire mountain pass with their intensity.

"If any of you don't particularly want to die tomorrow," Drake began, staring into the flames. "Leave. Either slip away into the night, or join the Templars. Honestly I don't care. You've done all right by me, but it's come to an end. Tomorrow will be the last day. We don't have enough bodies left to hold this wall. I won't think poorly of you if you don't want to throw your lives away for this worthless pile of rocks."

They all looked at him warily, seeking for any sign that this was some kind of test. One man finally spoke.

"You'd let us leave?"

"Let you?" Drake asked, turning to look the man in the eye. "You are your own man, you go where you damn well please. That was what started this whole war in the first place."

"You won't try to stop us?"

"We won't." Oss said calmly, joining the conversation. "We will stand with Drake tomorrow, but it will not be a fight we can win."

"Then why fight?" one of the mercenaries asked, incredulously.

"I was hired to keep them here as long as I could." Drake said simply. His eyes were cold, lifeless even. "I intend to do that. I know what you've all heard about me. I won't deny that that some of it is true. I've done terrible things, but I'm still a man of my word. I have dug my grave in this place. I will triumph or I will die." A few of them nodded their respect.

"We carved our own legend here," one man said. "Didn't we?"

"We did." Drake nodded without any real feeling. "Take whatever wealth there is left. You've earned it. Only carry what won't slow you down, though. Sneaking past the Templars will be tricky." His tone was as cold as his eyes. "The Blackclad mercenaries are no more. Throw your black in the pyre if you're leaving. Let it burn with our fallen brothers. The rest of us will die in it tomorrow."

The flames soared higher, and he tossed his helm into the blaze, watching the metal buckle and melt. _No more hiding,_ he thought darkly.

"If any of you want to take a shot at the bounty on my head, I'll warn you I've had a hell of a past few days and I won't be holding back anymore." He glanced around, seeming disappointed that nobody took the offer. He strode off, headed for the keep. The men exchanged nervous glances before several took off their coats, balling them up and tossing them into the flames. Rose and Oss kept theirs on, and a group of still-clad approached them.

"Why is he staying?" one of the men asked, "Really?"

"Drake is a mass of contradictions." Rose stated simply.

"He's as much a symbol of hope for the people as Roane is." Oss observed. "For those with the eyes to see it, he's living proof that the Church cannot just trample everyone into the ground. Some people are too stubborn to roll over and die."

"But he's tired." Rose picked up where he left off. "He doesn't want this life to continue, but he's too proud to ever willingly lose a battle. So he throws himself into the most hopeless situations knowing he'll either win, or he'll finally get to rest." A moment of solemn silence passed as the mercenaries watched his back, the black coat moving in the wind as he strode into the keep.

"That explains him," rasped an older man with a few iron teeth. "What about you two? Skills like yours, you could make a lot of money killin' for the right side."

"He's our friend." Oss stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

.

.

.

Thirty Blackclad, fully half their number, stayed at the fortress. The steel in their eyes showing their intent to lay down their lives for the Free Cities. They stood within the courtyard, defending the wells and the clean water that the Sharn army sought. Drake and Osias stood upon the wall, each guarding one of the doors to Rose's tower, helmetless and defiant in the face of the enemy.

Gazing over the remains of the Sharn army brought an unwelcome swell of pride into Drake's chest, piercing the cold melancholy that had cloaked him like a shroud. The Templar army was in tatters. They had lost almost their entire number in this siege, and their morale was gone. Three massive funeral pyres blazed in the morning sun, the flames and smoke blotting out everything behind the advancing force. The lines marched toward the wall, their feet dragging, their crippling fatigue obvious. Less than a thousand Templars were left, and they were a cold, tired, thirsty bunch. But against thirty three defenders, the outcome wasn't in question. It was only a matter of making their last stand strike fear into the hearts of those who survived it.

The Templars advanced in ragged cohesion, driven forward by their bellowing squad leaders. He heard the whisper of Rose releasing an arrow and the leader of the nearest squad fell, a white-fletched shaft through the eyeslit of his helmet. Drake had to fight a smile. Six ladders clattered onto the wall, and he hefted a rock, easily fifty pounds, from one of the stacks he'd built in the night. He lifted it over his head and brought it down, sending it hurtling over the edge and down onto the first men climbing. The rock smashed the helmet of the first climber flat, and splintered the ladder he was climbing. Oss would be doing the same, breaking ladders where he could to lessen the number of climbers he'd have to deal with.

A second ladder was smashed, and a third, before the first of the Sharn troops made the wall. Drake grabbed the man by the throat and leg, hefting him bodily and throwing him back down into the ladder. The wood splintered, and the ladder gave. Down the wall, he saw Oss take a man through the throat, letting him fall onto the others climbing behind him. Then the rest of the Templars got to the wall. He sprinted back to the door of the tower, putting himself between the Templars and their way in. The wall was wide enough for them to come in two at a time, three if they locked shields.

They came in twos, and he killed with an almost mechanical precision. He wasn't holding back anymore. Holding a wall by himself, he couldn't even if he wanted to. His sword rose and fell, each strike hacking into a gap between plates. Each thrust parting chainmail to lance into the meat within. A thrown spear smashed into his chest. The links of his coat held, barely, but he felt his collarbone crack. He impaled a swordsman seeking to circle around him, the wide blade snagging in the man's chest. With a titanic effort, he lifted the man, still impaled on the blade, to throw him back into the waiting Templars. The armored form knocked the nearest five from their feet, and he strode forward, ending their lives with brutal efficiency. The flow of men from the two remaining ladders ceased, and he butchered the last five with ice in his heart.

"I can do this all day!" he roared over the wall as the last Templar fell. "Send more meat!"

No more came, and he heard the sounds of battle from the adjacent wall die down as well. He glanced over, locking eyes with Oss and sharing an exhausted nod. Oss was alive, then. That was good. He glanced out to what was left of the Templar army. The fires had died down, and what he saw behind them made his blood run cold. Three catapults, built during the night. Drake and Osias had a prickling sense of dread, all three of the siege engines were aimed at the same point.

"Rose!" they bellowed in unison, turning to the tower. "Get out!"

Every archer and crossbowman left in the enemy army turned and let loose at the tower. Rose was forced to duck behind the battlements just to avoid the sheer volume of arrows being aimed at her. As soon as the storm seemed to abate, the catapults fired. Three massive stones crashed into the tower just below the floor Rose was standing on. The stonework gave a tortured cracking sound, and then started to fall. Drake watched, horrified, as the tower sagged under its own weight and became a shower of rubble. Rose was briefly visible, leaping and vaulting between the massive chunks of stone, but vanished in the cloud of debris. The entire central portion of the wall was obliterated as the catapults continued to hammer their payloads into it.

An eerie silence seemed to settle on the battlefield as the clouds of dust bloomed from the collapsing stonework. Nothing moved for a few seconds. At the base of the wall, Rose could be seen, lying unmoving, half-buried in the rubble. The twisted angle of her neck filled the two men with ice. Osias glanced briefly to Drake, his eyes telling his intent.

"Oss, No!"

The thin bladesman vaulted over the parapet, falling to the ground and landing gracefully. He drew his second sword, settling into a fighting stance in front of the buried girl.

"No one touches her," he said coldly. A crossbow twanged in the distance and the bolt sped for his neck. His second blade swatted it out of the air with contemptuous ease. "Who's first, you worms?"

The collapse of the wall had crushed the first ranks of the Divine Army, and the remaining squads were in disarray. The first five to regain their senses and charge the lone figure died in as many heartbeats. Osias fought better than he could ever remember. He was like smoke, flowing effortlessly around his enemies' attacks, his blades passing through their guards like nothing. The first man died cleanly. So did the next ten. Then it got messy. Five men attacked him at once, and he gave ground, parrying and weaving. His foot brushed the rocks beside Rose's still form, and he scowled.

The five of them rushed him, and time seemed to slow, his mind plotted the blocks and counters that would fell them, just as something blotted out the sun.

Drake smashed down, the momentum from his fall crushing the lead warrior beneath his boots. His sword smashed downward, carrying all the momentum of the leap, and a second man fell, literally carved in half. Two more men fell to the ground, their throats opened in their moment of shock, and Osias leapt forward to skewer the fifth through the neck.

The mass of the enemy charged the two figures, some flowing past them to climb the destroyed wall, most staying to try for the higher priority targets. The two men slammed back-to-back as the army surrounded them, each plugging gaps in the other's defenses, and killing with terrifying skill. The soldiers backed away after a few seconds, forming a wide circle.

"So this is where it ends." Drake spat, glaring at the surrounding soldiers. The sound of clashing steel could be heard from over the wall as the surviving Blackclad made their last stand.

"I think I finally understand you." Oss said, his voice cracking as his eyes fell on the still form of Rose. He glared at the surrounding army, his voice going icy. "That you don't want to keep living, but you can't just let these _animals_ go unpunished."

Drake said nothing, glancing back at the swordsman and his wife and feeling like the world had lost another bright light in the darkness. _A light in the darkness?_ He thought darkly. _That kid's stories have been rubbing off on you_.

"If Rose and I are going to the next life," Osias muttered, shrugging his black coat off and laying it over Rose's still form like a funerary shroud. "We could use some company."

"I'm at thirty seven today." The big man said with a sad smile. "I can't join you yet. Bryce would never let me live it down."

"Then they'll have to do." Oss said, nodding to the ring of men slowly surrounding them.

"I'll handle the broad strokes." Drake said with a grin. "You mop up the details." Oss laughed, the gallows humor putting ice into the surrounding soldiers. The two swordsmen charged.

Drake hit the wall of Templars first, his shoulder barreling into a shield and knocking its bearer to the ground for Oss to put down. The big man's sword smashed into the next man's neck and clove through to shatter the shoulder of the man behind him. The sheer audacity of the act seemed to stun them, and the soldiers backed away involuntarily. The small gap was more than enough for Osias to spin into. The nearest two fell, their throats laid open to the bone. They fought in perfect unity. A kick from Drake toppled a man coming at Oss from his blind side. As the man fell, Oss came down on him, driving both blades through his chest. Drake's massive sword sang over Oss's head, crunching into the neck of the next man to come at him. Oss spun behind the big man, parrying two thrusts aimed at his back, and killing their wielders with the return strokes. A Sharn soldier's thrust managed to catch Osias in the shoulder, staggering him for a moment. Drake roared, his gauntleted fist slamming into the man's chest like a battering ram. The force of the blow turned the man's breastplate concave, and he crumpled without a sound. A sword parted the rings of his coat, lancing like white fire into Drake's side just below the ribs. He gasped, dropping to one knee.

The entire battlefield stopped, and all was silence for a moment.

"Finally someone manages to mark me." The big man wheezed with a smile. His hand clamped over the hilt of the sword, pinning the man's hand in an iron grip. The next words came out as a roar. "It's about goddamn time!" The Templar tried to wrench himself free, but the gauntleted fist held him tight. Drake started to laugh, the sound booming and full of emotion. The massive sword arced down, catching the gap between right shoulder and neck and cleaving down to exit above the Templar's left hip. He pulled the Templar's blade from his side, burying it in another man's neck with a snarl as he felt blood coating the inside of his shirt. He let go. He let his power roam, the headache cleared instantly, and the battlefield seemed to darken around them. He kept laughing, his sword smashing through helms and into bodies with every cleaving strike. He felt the sting of the line across his collarbones, and let the chains around his rage go slack. He truly _**let go**_ for the first time in the war. "Blood and Death!" he roared, laughing and feeling truly alive again as the enemies came.

A mace smashed into his back. The chainmail absorbed some of the force of the blow, but he felt another couple ribs snap. He didn't care. He spun, beheading the man with a brutal chop. A spear lanced for his throat, and he turned it aside, scoring a gash above his left eye as he buried the point of his massive sword in the spearman's stomach. Another Templar buckled as Osias's curved sword speared under his arm to punch through his heart and lungs.

"Faster." He heard Oss say angrily. The slender swordsman became a blur, moving like an avenging shadow. Blood was flowing freely from the cut to Drake's face, gumming his left eye shut. He clove and smashed armor with his sword, hammering a path through the Templar ranks. They didn't have a destination, but he knew that they had to keep the momentum going as long as they could. If they stopped they'd be surrounded. He let the rage and adrenaline take him, and the release of it was heady.

Drake was a blood-soaked whirlwind, the wide blade of his sword arcing out to cave in armor and sever limbs. Oss was his shadow, always where the massive blade wasn't, opening throats and skewering hearts. The two of them hacked and sliced a bloody track through the enemy army, stopping only when they hit the solid wall of earth surrounding the Deacon's command tent. They spun, turning to face the warriors rushing in from three sides. Drake glanced at Osias. The swordsman's breathing was heavy, and the wound to his shoulder was compromising his blade work on one side now. Oss gave him a grim nod as the ring of weapons closed around them. A glint of metal over Oss's shoulder made his blood run cold. His rage vanished in an instant. Heavy, two-man crossbows. Dozens of them, aimed into the melee. He moved to throw Oss clear, but before he could reach him, the arms of the crossbows thudded forward.

Three bolts hit Drake, two in the left shoulder, and one in the meat of his right thigh. The force of the heavy bolts knocked him sprawling. He was dimly aware of Oss staggering over to him and falling to his knees. The clatter of armor was almost deafening as all the Templars they had been fighting dropped, riddled with bolts. Osias was kneeling beside him, swords still grasped in white-knuckled hands.

"Fucking crossbows…" Drake muttered, delirious.

There was no response, nor would there be. Oss was hunched over in a kneeling position, his eyes as lifeless as the dozen shafts protruding from his back.

"Keep her safe on the road, Oss." Drake whispered. "We were gods for a while." He felt that yawning emptiness open up in his soul again and clamped down on it, focusing on the pain of his wounds. _Now isn't the time to be sappy._ He thought, spitting a mouthful of blood on the ground ahead of him. _You still have skulls to crack._

He forced himself painfully to his feet and his right leg threatened to give out on him. Breath came in hiking gasps, the pain of his ribs seeming to hold his entire chest in fiery claws. For several yards all was still, he and Oss having held their ground. Bodies were everywhere, in some cases two or three deep. They'd reaped a heavy toll before the Templars had decided to kill their own men. Outside the cordon of bodies, soldiers were crowding around, trying to get a look the man they had heard so many horror stories about. He scanned the crowd, his vision blurring, until picking out an unfamiliar mounted silhouette. He staggered, almost losing his footing before aiming his sword toward the mounted figure of the Deacon.

"You…" He snarled.

The Deacon turned and nodded to one of his retainers. The man raised a crossbow and calmly shot Drake in his uninjured leg. Roaring in agony, he fell to his knees again, sword falling from numbed fingers. Two Templars move behind him, swords raised for the killing blow. He spun up onto one knee, burying one of his boot knives in each of their necks and letting them drop. His eyes fell to Oss again, and he tilted his head back and roared, giving voice to all the rage, pain and loss he'd been keeping chained up. The sound was raw, almost primal, and carried over the remains of the Templar army. Weapons were lowered without conscious thought, booted feet backed away. His roar faded to a hoarse rasp as his wounded legs buckled, dropping him back to his knees. He cast about for the hilt of his sword, stopping as he heard the Deacon's horse trotting alongside him. He glared at the armored man. He was pristine and spotless after almost a week of death, out of swinging distance, but close enough for conversation.

"Why did you stay?" The Deacon asked, tilting his head. "You had horses. You could have taken the gold and made for any port on the south coast. You could have been rich."

_Honor isn't that simple_. Oss's words echoed in his head. _You can't get rid of it just because it's inconvenient. If you could, it wouldn't be worth anything_.

"Blessed be the True God," the man cursed under his breath, leaning down and speaking in a conspiratorial tone. "Between the two of us, if you'd just taken the money and left, the girl might have stayed with you. Wealth seems to… enliven her spirits… if you take my meaning."

"I'll cut out your bastard heart before this is over," Drake seethed.

"No. You won't. Your force is spent, and your fortress is a ruin. I don't think…" There was a scream from the rear ranks, and several men fell, their backs riddled with black-fletched arrows. "Form ranks! Reverse formation!" the Deacon bellowed. "Shields up!"

A cold smile crept across Drake's bloodied features. "Roane is here."

"How?" the Deacon's eyes widened in disbelief. The bleeding man was right. A huge block of cavalry were riding toward his lines. "Roane's army should be fifty miles from here. We outmaneuvered him!"

Drake just started to laugh again, that same slow, deliberate laugh that had filled their hearts with ice when the gate fell. "The Free Army, fifteen thousand men." He laughed until tears streaked down the sides of his face, each hike of his chest sending tongues of fire licking through all his injuries. "You're all dead." He chuckled. Something heavy impacted the back of his skull and he dropped face-first into the ground, lapsing into unconsciousness. Everything went dark. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't feel anything. He was falling.

"Not yet." A boy's voice said.

"What?"

"Not yet." A female voice repeated after a moment.

"Drake." The two voices said in unison. "Not yet."

He recognized the voices, but he had no idea from where. They were familiar to him. _The dream_, he realized.

"Not yet," the voices said urgently. "It isn't over yet."

He had the feeling of the dream, the comforting familiarity of the two presences returned to him. He opened his eyes and took in a campfire, with Rose and Oss seated opposite the two from his dream. They were all staring straight at him. He moved to sit, but Oss shook his head.

"One more," Oss began.

"One more and you'll have kept your word," Rose finished.

Drake stretched his limbs, reveling in the feeling. There was no pain here. No injuries, no scars. His head didn't even hurt. It was amazing. After a moment he sighed. "This is gonna be painful, isn't it?"

"Oh, monstrously so." The boy from the dream chuckled. "But we can't let you die a liar, can we?"

His eyes fluttered open, well, one of them did. The other was gummed shut with blood. Pain burned like acid in his bones. He cried out, his hand finding the hilt of his massive sword. He gripped it, fighting a wave of dizziness. The blade seemed heavier than it should be. His teeth ground together. He couldn't remember where he was. Everything was so distant. His vision seemed to sway slightly, taking in the scene before him. He was staring at the back of the Sharn lines, their men were being pushed back toward the fortress. It came back to him. _Roane was here. Oss was dead. Rose was dead. Bryce was dead. The girl had tried to kill him. The Deacon had..._ his lips curled into a snarl. All of his pain and rage focused to a single point as he staggered to his feet, ripping the crossbow bolts from his legs. He blacked out, seeing stars and waking up a few seconds later on his knees.

_One more, _Their words came back to him._ One more and you'll have kept your word._

His teeth ground together as he forced his injured body to its feet one last time.

_The Deacon._

_._

_._

_._

It was plain to see that the Sharn forces were losing. Cornered as they were between the ruined walls of the fortress and the massive Resistance army, there was nowhere to go. The men were tired, they were thirsty, and this new enemy was fresh and well supplied. The Deacon fought down his increasing alarm. No enemy had yet breached his bodyguard. He took half a second to think. He had to escape. That much was obvious. He was far too valuable to the Faith to be lost in this foolish siege over a broken fortress. He weighed his options. If they could build enough momentum, his cavalry might be able to punch through the enemy and escape. He would lose most of them, but such sacrifices were often necessary to maintain the Faith. He nodded to himself, his mind set. "Knights of the True Faith!" the Deacon called out. "To me!"

With a roar that would shame a bear, Drake barreled into the Deacon from behind, knocking him from his mount and bowling him over. The white-garbed general regained his footing quickly, spinning on his heel and bringing his shield and mace to the ready. His form was impeccable. The sword hammered into him, cutting cleanly through the shield, taking him in the abdomen and exiting his back in a bloody spray. They both hit the ground. The Deacon's eyes rolled madly behind the faceplate of his helm. His mouth filled with blood as he attempted to draw breath into lungs that were only half-there. Everything below his ribs was gone, lying a few spans away. "I told you." Drake muttered deliriously, drawing a knife and rolling to his knees. The Deacon's mouth moved silently, praying for release as the blade lanced into his chest. He felt a gauntleted hand grasping at his heart. It was messy work, and by the time the offending organ was removed, Drake was slick to the elbow in fresh gore. As the life faded from the Deacon's eyes, Drake held the organ before the dying man's face, blood drizzling to coat the faceplate of his helm.

"I told you." The blood-soaked mercenary rasped.

The soldiers around him stared in horrified shock. It had happened so quickly that they hadn't even reacted beyond staring. Drake began to laugh again, tossing the quivering red lump at the nearest soldier. It impacted on the front of his helm with a splatter of blood. The man screamed, shattering what was left of the Templar morale. They all backed away from this demon garbed in black, covered in the blood of the leader they had believed invincible. Fear turned to panic, and they began streaming from him, rushing onto the waiting swords of the Resistance army. What followed was as brutal as it was quick. Within minutes, the entrance to the fortress was a charnel house, and the Sharn Templars were no more.

Drake felt his strength bleeding away and fell to his side, attempting to push himself to his feet again. He failed, falling flat onto his back and feeling the thunder of battle through the blood-soaked earth. The sound of boots pounding the ground and metal clanging together blended into a single note that seemed to stretch on forever.

"Zeb!" The voice cut through the din. The sound of hoofbeats reached him as though from a great distance. Roane dismounted and ran to the bleeding man's side. "Zeb!" Roane tore scraps from his blue cloak and began binding the wounds across the big man's chest. "Surgeon!" he roared. "To me!"

The world blurred again, and he felt numerous hands working to staunch the flow of blood from his battered body. What was left of his shattered armor was either unstrapped or cut off in quick order.

"Don't worry." Drake laughed deliriously. "Most of the blood's mine."

"Stay alive, Zeb." Roane said tersely. "That's an order. You're still on contract."

"Heh." The bloody swordsman chuckled to himself as Roane rolled him over, binding the cloth around his back. He kept chuckling deliriously. Roane's backhand snapped his head to the side. Fury blazed in his eyes before ebbing.

"Focus, Zeb." Roane said simply. "These may be your last moments. I don't think you want to be giggling like a child."

"My name…" the big man wheezed, his breath coming in hiking gasps. He turned his head, painfully slow, to look Roane with his one good eye. "My name isn't Zeb."

Roane looked at him, taking in the shaven face, the green eyes, the short hair.

"By the old gods…" Roane muttered, awe in his voice. "Are you really Dra-" he caught the words before they could finish, eying the two medics working feverishly on the wounded man. His voice fell to a whisper. "Are you really him?"

"What's left of him," Drake nodded, his eye clearing and his head sagging to the ground.

"I expected you to be older." Roane observed. Drake chuckled weakly.

"Old people usually do." The bloody man's eye drifted shut.

Roane's face became serious. "Why did you help us?"

"Gave you my word, General," the big man wheezed, gritting his teeth against the pain of the medics plugging the crossbow wounds in his legs. "Honor is a bastard, but it's all I've got. You've built something worth fighting for. That's rare."

"You aren't what they say," Roane muttered sadly, "You aren't some demon, conjured from the depths of hell."

"Tell that… to him." The wounded mercenary nodded weakly toward the shorn halves of the Deacon. "Told him… I'd tear his bastard heart out." He gritted his teeth as a binding was tightened around one of his legs. "Pompous fuck didn't believe me." He lifted his bloody right hand and tried to speak again, but darkness loomed on the edges of his vision, and he let it take him. Maybe this time it would stick.

.

.

.

The two from the dream were waiting for him again. They smiled when they saw him, a smile of genuine affection. A friend's smile. Rose gave him a nod of approval, and Oss clapped a hand onto his shoulder. The two from his dream reached out to him, beckoning him toward a door of light. He saw Rose and Oss step through it, and reached out to take the hands of the other two…

…and felt the weight of his body settle around him like a prison. His eyes were closed. He groaned as consciousness returned, bringing with it all the pain from the siege. Caged fire danced in his bones and muscles, from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He drew in a shuddering breath and tensed, the motion bringing fresh agonies to his ribs. "Fucking Dammit." He slurred.

"Holy shit, he's awake." a familiar voice spoke from beside the cot he was laid out on. Drake opened his eyes and waited for the room to stop spinning. He lifted his head weakly. Daeric was there, the young squire looked exhausted. He turned his head painfully slowly, looking out the tent. White stone. He heard gulls cawing, and smelled the spray of the sea over the scent of his own blood. They were in Roane's city. He could hear the roar of a crowd cheering. They were celebrating.

"How long was I out?" he mumbled, glancing down. His entire body was a mass of linens and compresses.

"A week." Daeric answered. "See you tried to catch every blade with your ribs again."

"See you're still too stupid to follow my orders." The injured man fumed. "Going and finding Roane was the opposite of what I told you to do. I wanted you _away_ from the war."

"I got them to the trade road, like you asked." Daeric held up his hands apologetically. "Then rode like the wind to find Roane. His army was moving to attack the Templars in the plains twenty miles to your north."

"You disobeyed me." Drake's eyes locked to the younger man's. There was a long pause, and Daeric's gray eyes stared back, not backing down. Drake's face broke into a weak smile. "Thanks. It's good to see you alive, lad."

"Likewise." The squire nodded, returning the smile.

"Help me up." The big man muttered.

"They said you shouldn't move for at least a week." Daeric spoke apologetically. Drake gave him a look that would stop a charging bull.

"I stay still for a week, and I'll die of boredom." He glared. "Help. Me. Up."

The young man picked up the sheet of parchment set on the bedside table. "Severe stab wound to the lower right chest, crossbow bolts to the left upper chest and each thigh, slice across left scalp just below hairline, Four broken ribs, cracked collarbone, thirty two serious lacerations across chest and arms, prognosis: blood loss terminal." He paused. "Forgive me for speaking plainly master, but how the fuck are you alive?"

"No clue." Drake shrugged his shoulders, the motion sending a fresh spike of pain into him. "Death doesn't want me. Without me, he'd lose too much business. Help me up." The young squire did so. The effort to get himself into a sitting position was monumental. "Did any of the Blackclad live?"

"None." Daeric shook his head sadly. "The ones who left were slaughtered trying to get clear of the Templar army. The ones who stayed…" the young squire paused. "Roane said the last of the bodies were in a circle with their backs to the well."

Drake nodded once, feeling that cold emptiness seep into his gut again. All dead. He let the weight of that fact settle over his shoulders for a moment before shaking his head to clear his thoughts. A wave of vertigo hit him, and he held his breath, screwing his eyes shut and waiting for it to pass. "Oss and Rose?"

"Buried in the forest." Daeric said sadly. "Their hands clasped together around a single seed." Drake blinked, staring at the young man. "I don't know!" the squire spluttered. "It just seemed to fit…"

"Well done, kid." The wounded man gave a nod, resting a heavy hand on the squire's shoulder. A weak smile of approval split his battered face. "They'd have liked it."

The heavy feeling of sadness bore them down, and they let it linger for a few moments before Daeric broke the silence. "So what now?"

"We keep looking." Drake said after a long pause, forcing himself to his feet and staggering to the edge of the tent. They were on the ocean side of Roane's city, and ships were coming and going at a frantic pace. Winter was on its way. That meant a break in the war as both sides, focused on surviving the bitter season.

"Looking for what?" Daeric seemed confused.

The wounded man didn't answer, gazing over the ocean, his eyes unfocused. _Looking for someone who can actually kill me,_ Drake thought, bitterly. _If they exist. _He swayed dizzily on his feet. Oss had been one. That was what had led Drake to seek him out in the forest. Then he had to go and make a friend. He winced, feeling a stinging in his eyes. He almost fell, and felt the ghost of Oss's hand on his shoulder, steadying him. He felt Rose support his other shoulder, and smelled the herbs she used in her potions. Bryce settled into his shadow again, watching his back. He opened his eyes. They weren't there. He glanced around, his delirium robbing him of sense. Closing his eyes, he tried to summon them back. Nothing. Nothing but old scars and new pains. He fell to his knees, feeling the stitches on his thighs pull tight. The faces of all the men he'd lost, the friends, and the two whose names he couldn't remember, flashed in his mind's eye, and he felt that yawning emptiness in his gut again.

"I won't forget you." He whispered. "I'll wear the black till the day I die."

"What?" Daeric asked, leaning toward him. "Didn't catch that."

"I said help me up." The big man muttered tiredly, gritting his teeth and shaking his head. "Damn knees are shaky from too long spent in soft beds."

Daeric did as he was told; helping the big man to his feet and holding him steady.

"If I stop moving I'll just curl up and die somewhere." He muttered to himself, not caring that the squire heard him this time. "We need to go. Let's find Roane. He owes me a favor, and I'm done with his war."


	3. Epilogue

Much debate was had about whether I was going to leave this alone, whether the future stories of Drake's pre-Konoha adventures would be added to it, or whether they'd each be a self-contained story.

I decided that they'll each be their own contained story, so here's the epilogue:

.

…

…..

…

…..

…

.

"Another toast to our hero!" the pudgy noble said, raising a crystal goblet of incredibly expensive wine. "To Sir Zeb!"

"To Sir Zeb!" the entire banquet hall chorused. Glasses were raised, cheers echoed, and Drake felt himself die a little more inside. He forced a tight smile, raising his glass to the cheering room.

The mask itched, but he left it. It was something Roane had cooked up to keep him hidden, a cloth skullcap with a patchwork of bandages stitched around it, some of them stained as though covering fresh injuries. It gave him the appearance of being wrapped in bandages, but he could slip it on and off easily enough.

He threw back his glass with a flourish, earning another cheer. The wine was too expensive, the flavor subtle and multifaceted. He hated it.

He waited for the cheers to die down and the individual conversations to resume. Once the attention of the masses was no longer centered on him, he stood. Striding the room, he shook hands and accepted toasts until he made it to the doors to the kitchen. Roane locked eyes with him across the banquet hall and gave him a barely perceptible nod. Drake vanished into the servant's quarters. Squeezing through the cramped hallways, he followed the path he'd memorized after the first banquet. After a few tense minutes, he emerged from the back of the mansion. The sun was setting, and he powered through the flurries of snow at a ground-eating pace.

They'd set him up in the manor of one of the former nobles. It had taken him all of one night to move to a seedy tavern on the edge of town.

Roane hadn't approved. Drake hadn't _cared_. Everything was in balance.

"The usual, Zeb?" the innkeeper Bress asked with a smirk that showcased his three iron teeth.

"Something stronger I think." Drake called over his shoulder, striding from the bar and up toward his room. Pausing at his door to listen for anything unusual, he pulled the mask of bandages off his face. Silence. He pushed the door open. The fireplace was cold, and he relished the feel of the cool air on his bare face. He took off his cloak and coat, shaking the snow out of them.

Winter had arrived in force. It had been barely a month since they'd pulled him from under a pile of bodies at that accursed wall. The snow drifts were already a few feet high. Roanesport, as the city was fast becoming known, was buried under a white blanket of bitter cold.

He set a few logs into the iron fireplace and tore up the papers they'd given him at banquet, setting the small tinder pile under the dry wood. Certificates honoring his noble service, an honorary knighthood, titles to his new manor. None of it meant a damn thing. He pulled one of the torches from the wall and held it to the paper, waiting for it to catch.

He didn't want any of it.

He shook his head to try and rid himself of the morose thoughts. It didn't work. _One solution then, _he thought bitterly, pulling the mask of bandages down over his face again. He stepped out the door, locking it with his key and strode down to the empty bar.

"Rough night?" Bress was a huge man, the match in stature for Drake himself, and he ran one of the most violent taverns in the city.

"Yes." Drake said, in a tone that made it clear he didn't feel like getting into it. Bress slid an iron stein of something toward him. It smelled like it could strip the rust from an old blade, and he nodded his thanks.

"To the Black Clad." He muttered quietly, raising the drink to the ceiling.

.

…

…..

…

.

He was well into his cups by the time the tavern filled up, the clamor of drinking and boasting filling his ears with an unrelenting din.

"You look like you could use some company." A refined female voice spoke from beside him.

"Do I?" his eyes didn't rise from his drink.

"I'm Jenn." she said, and he turned to glance at her. She looked to be about his age, with dark hair and eyes. The dress she wore was of fine material, and hugged her curves in all the right places. She slid onto his lap, looping an arm over the back of his neck and letting the scent of her perfume wash over him.

"Zeb," he said bitterly. "_Former_ leader of the Blackclad."

"Are you always this maudlin with a lady on top of you?" she flashed him a playful smile.

"You seem oddly focused on me," he muttered with a cold smile. "The disfigured one in a room of men throwing coins around."

"General Roane thought you could use some company," she said, breaking eye contact uncomfortably. "To help take your mind off..."

"Just speak plainly, girl." He deadpanned, cutting her off. "I just escaped a banquet. I'm not a noble, I'm a mercenary. I'm done with pleasantries for the night."

She nodded, slumping onto the stool next to him and waving for a drink. A few seconds later, a tankard of ale slid down the bar and she took a long pull from it.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked, wiping the foam from her lips. Her voice had lost the refined edge. "I'm a whore. They _paid_ me. The rest of you looks like it's in good shape. Five gold pieces and a warm bed sounded like a good night. It's colder than a Sharn wedding out there."

"Cheers to that." He said, feeling an involuntary smirk tugging one side of his face as their mugs clinked together. There was a term he hadn't heard in a while; the public execution of a couple by the Church. "Colder than a Sharn wedding."

He downed his own drink with one smooth motion, slamming the mug onto the counter. He raised his hand to call for another when someone stumbled into him from behind, spilling ale all over his back and shoulders.

The bar froze, going dead silent. Everyone was staring at the man who'd spilled the ale, and Drake stood slowly, turning to face him. He let the silence stretch a few moments longer than it needed to, savoring the other man's discomfort. Then he laughed.

"That's a shame, man." He muttered, fishing two copper coins out and tossing them onto the bar. "Bress!" he called, clapping an arm around the man's shoulders. "Another one for my friend here!"

The noise of the bar resumed instantly. Several grips on hidden weapons loosened. Drake clinked glasses with the man who'd soaked him, and turned back to the bar.

He paid his own tab, standing and taking a few swaying steps toward the stairs. The girl appeared on his arm, steadying him.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Free city." He chuckled.

He led her to his room, finding two bottles of wine resting against the door. The sweet red he'd acquired a taste for. He stooped, lifting the bottles and opening the door for the girl. She moved to sit on the bed as he pulled the cork from the first bottle.

The fire was roaring now, and the room was comfortably warm. He took the sodden shirt off, wringing the ale from it and hanging it on a nail in the wall. He turned, drying himself, and his scars caught the firelight. The girl's eyes went wide.

"What?" he asked.

She didn't answer. She just stared, her eyes wide.

"Speak, girl." He said tiredly. "Or try your luck downstairs for another warm place to sleep."

"Are you really him?" she asked, awe in her voice. "Are you really Drake?"

"Who told you that?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice calm. He'd wanted to physically recoil at the mention of his name. Nobody was supposed to know. "Who told you that?" he repeated a little more sternly.

"It's the talk of the city. They're sayin' Drake himself was there, at the wall." She spoke, her eyes still wide. "People have been talkin' about it for days. Huge he is, dark haired and scarred as an old wolf. Stood alone against the Saint and beat him. A swordsman to match Lord Artur of the old tales."

"They really say that about me?" his voice was barely above a whisper, and his shoulders slumped. The sadness in the words seemed to catch the girl off-guard, and she blinked.

"So it's true." She whispered. "You're Drake."

"How long ago did this start?" he asked, eyes on the floor.

"The rumor's been around since the battle." The girl seemed to relax a bit. "But it started gaining strength about a week ago."

His mind raced, and he forced himself to sip the wine, swirling it around his cheeks and waiting for the telltale burn or creeping numbness of a poison. Nothing. How was this possible? The only ones left alive who knew were Daeric and Roane, and he trusted them both. Not only did they know he was here, but they had a _description_ of him. This was bad. Every single person involved in that siege had died. How could…

_Her._

His mind stopped its frantic backpedalling, bringing up the memory of short red hair and beautiful green eyes.

_She must have told someone,_ he scowled into his drink. _ That bitch._

He felt the dull flickers of rage kindle in his gut, that old familiar feeling that had gotten him through the siege. The line above his collarbones throbbed angrily, and he fought the urge to bring a hand up. He took a deep breath, letting the rage flicker and fade.

_Should have killed her_. He thought bitterly. He brought his eyes up to lock with those of the girl in the bed. She was still staring.

"I'd appreciate if you didn't tell anyone what you just found out."

"What if I did?" she spoke, her tone defiant.

"You aren't scared of me?" he muttered, more to himself than to her.

"Can I see your face?"

The question caught him completely off-guard. He brought a hand up to the mask of bandages, but paused.

_She already knows who you are, _he thought calmly. _ What do you have to lose?_

He pulled the mask off, and sighed in relief at the feel of the air on his face again.

"Damn." She muttered, and he felt a smirk tugging his cheek. "You're not bad."

"You didn't answer me."

"Look at me." She countered simply.

He did so, locking eyes with her and keeping his face indifferent.

"No." she said after what seemed like an eternity studying his face.

"You should be." Drake laughed without any mirth.

"You have sad eyes," she observed, cutting through his false bravado like a dagger. "In my experience, evil men have hunger in their eyes, not sadness."

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped. No point arguing with that. He took a long drink from the wine bottle.

"You look tense." She lifted the sheets and gave him a view of her form in the firelight. His eyes followed her flawless curves, and did not find them wanting. She beckoned him with an extended finger. "Come over here. I'm sure I could help you relax. It's what I do."

He stared for a long moment, locking eyes with her.

"Might even get a smile out of you," she muttered snarkily, "if I'm lucky."

"Beds give me nightmares." He said simply, breaking the eye contact.

"You're lying." She observed with a sultry smile.

"The truth?" he asked, without any anger. She nodded. "The last woman I bedded gave me this." He ran a hand along the still-healing slash across his collarbones. His shoulders slumped, and his back found the wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. "Found out who I was, and tried to slit my throat with a poisoned dagger. Now she's told this damned city that I'm here. Forgive me for not wanting to follow my baser self right now."

"What a bitch." Jenn said bluntly, letting the blankets fall to cover her again.

"Right?" he agreed, letting his head hang.

"I won't make a try for your throat." She said, honestly. "I make a good living here, I don't want for much, and the damn Church wants to outlaw whoring. Standing up to them makes you a hero in my book."

He laughed then, and for a miracle actually felt it.

"We need more of that." She continued, gesturing to him. "Someone outside the nobility, to just say '_Fuck you_' when the Church gets too full of itself."

"You have an amusingly high opinion of me." He muttered, his eyes downcast. "I'm just a mercenary."

"Why are you sad, then?" she asked simply, arching an eyebrow. "You've been showered with more coin and renown than any three men in the past decade for your victory at the wall."

"Victory." He almost spat the word. "What victory?"

"You crushed the Templar army."

"I lost my three closest friends at that damned wall." He sighed, closing his eyes and leaning his head back to rest upon the creaking timbers. "I still can't come to peace with that. I catch myself thinking they'll be here when I wake up. I'd burn the Free Cities to ash for that to be true."

The girl went silent, wrapping a blanket around her form and moving to sit beside him against the wall. "I know that feeling." She admitted. "I've lost friends."

"What happened?" he asked, closing his eyes and leaning back against the creaking timbers again.

"I had a friend. Alla," Jenn sighed sadly. "We grew up together. We worked together. We were like twins. She was the other half of my soul."

Drake nodded sadly.

"One day, we got hired to attend some huge banquet one of the nobles was throwing. Lord Gage," she sneered. "We were new to the city, and couldn't believe our luck. One of the richest nobles in the cities asked for the two of us by name. Toward the end of the banquet, I wound up with a young noble from across the sea. Alla went with Gage."

"What happened?"

"I didn't hear from Alla for days afterwards." She sighed. "I put my ear to the ground. I listened to what the other girls in the city were saying. Sometimes when Lord Gage throws a party, one of us goes missing. I kept digging, found out some people saw some of Gage's men carrying a body out the back of the manor the next night." She paused, clenching her hands into fists. "The description matched Alla. He killed her. I've spent a while gathering what information I can. It's like a game to him. Usually he lets them go with a broken bone or two, but when he's in his cups, he doesn't stop."

"Did he ever get caught?" Drake asked, his own anger beginning to simmer.

"It was my word against his." She shook her head sadly. "Who would believe some teenage girl over one of the richest men in the city? I spent a few years climbing the social ladder so I could find enough evidence for a trial, but he's too clever. He pays off all the right people. He's taken seven more girls since then. Nobody ever sees them again, but they aren't important enough to risk losing all the money that Gage has been giving the Free Cities."

The silence stretched, and they left it alone. He offered her the bottle of wine, and she took a long drink. He stood up, pacing over to add another log to the fire before slumping down beside her again.

"So tell me about them." She broke the silence, handing him the bottle again.

He raised an eyebrow.

"_Your_ friends." She explained. "Tell me about them."

"I don't think I can do them justice," he smiled sadly, his eyes losing their focus. "They were _incredible_. Warriors to walk the mountains with. Oss could fight twenty men on a frozen lake and never lose his balance. Rose could put an arrow through a man's eye in the middle of a hurricane. Bryce could disappear in a field in the noon sun. The Blackclad all fought like heroes. They came for the wall, and we sent them back. Day after day, they sent all they had at us. They summoned beasts to fight us, they sent assassins to kill us in the night, and we gave them nothing but _steel_."

"The fourth night," he growled involuntarily, raising a hand to the scar over below his throat. "The girl made her move."

"How'd she get to you?" Jenn asked, studying the scar.

"We rescued her from a column of Templar cavalry." He explained. "Turned out the whole thing was a happy coincidence for her. She was a bounty hunter. She'd been looking for me when they grabbed her."

He took a shuddering breath, swaying slightly at the potency of the memory.

"She followed me like a lost dog." He muttered. "Acting all enamored because I rescued her. When I finally let her in, I woke up with a poisoned knife at my throat."

"Did you kill her?" Jenn asked dispassionately.

"I couldn't." he muttered. "When I got ahold of the knife I just saw the lost puppy again."

"Shame," Jenn sighed.

"I don't kill girls." Drake sighed, running his hands through his unkempt hair. "Man's gotta have a code, right?"

She was silent.

"The fifth day was some kind of holy day for them." He spoke bitterly. "No bloodshed. Nothing to do but pace the wall and think about what the girl had done to me. I was so angry I could barely see."

He sighed.

"Then on the sixth, Bryce fell. I killed the man who did it, _Living Saint of the Templar Army_." He almost spat the words. "I took him apart piece by piece. He didn't die well." He paused, unclenching his hands from the fists they'd become. "But we lost fifty men to the bastard, including Bryce. Bryce was my shadow. Someone hired him to kill me, but he was too much of a smartass, so he ended up following me instead."

"The last day, we knew we didn't have the numbers to hold them off. Rose was in her tower, Oss and I stood in the entrances. The two of them _stayed with me_." His voice cracked for a moment, and her head came to rest on his shoulder. "Even though they knew that we were all going to die, even after the girl tried to slit my throat, they still stayed. I was so proud. I felt like I could move the mountains with my bare hands. Three of us stood on the wall." He stopped, taking a shuddering breath. "Three, against five hundred. They came again, and Oss and I fought like we never had before. Then the bastards played their hand."

"What happened?" she asked, completely enthralled by his telling of the story.

"Catapults." He growled. "The Templars built catapults in the night. Before we knew what was happening, Rose's tower was rubble. She broke her neck in the fall." He felt tears in his eyes, and blinked them away. "Oss lost it. He jumped down into the Templars, moving like death himself. I went too, and together he and I cut a path all the way to the leader of their army. The Deacon."

She cuddled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around one of his.

"They came, and we killed all of them. Oss had my back and I had his. You should have seen it; Templar dead piled three-deep around us, striding through the enemy like gods. Oss took a spear to the shoulder. I took this," his hand hovered over the stab wound to his side. "We were hurt. We were bleeding. But we were unstoppable."

"What happened next?"

"They killed their own men," he snarled, "to get us. They loosed a volley of heavy crossbows into the combat. Oss took most of the bolts meant for me. I only took a couple. Oss died right there beside me."

A single tear ran down his cheek, and he paused with a bitter smile.

"I was on my knees, bleeding. I couldn't stand, couldn't lift my sword. They surrounded me, and the Deacon came forward to talk to me; to twist the knife. I told him I'd kill him. Then…" he trailed off.

"Then?"

"Their rear ranks started dying. The Free Army was there," he said, wiping the tear from his cheek. "We'd done it. We'd _won_. Two hundred of us had kept the Templars from taking the wells and establishing a foothold for Sharn. I staggered up. I have no idea how I did it, I should have been dead. I tackled that bastard Deacon off of his horse and cut him in half. Then Roane found me and I passed out."

He took a shuddering breath, calming himself. When he spoke again, his voice was barely audible; a hoarse whisper, ragged with loss.

"If Roane had gotten there an hour sooner, thirty of my Blackclad would have lived. Oss and Rose, my _friends,_ would have lived." The girl was silent. Drake took a shuddering breath. "If he'd been five minutes later I'd be with them now."

"You're a hero." she said simply, hugging his arm tighter.

"No." he shook his head bitterly. "The Blackclad who died on those miserable rocks were heroes. I'm just the one who lived. And now they throw banquets for me. _The hero."_ he sneered. "Where is the banquet for my brothers and sisters who died on that wall? Where is their reward? Nobody wants to hear about the people who died to keep them free. They just want to celebrate." He smiled bitterly, lifting the second wind bottle and downing half of it in a single long draw. "So I've been here; drinking to their memory, because nobody else is."

"You're not just the one who lived." She said, her words passionate. She paused, gently pushing the bottle from his lips. "You're the one who _stayed_. You stayed and defended us when you should have run. Because of that, your friends stayed too. You kept the Free Cities free by holding that wall. You did _the right thing_. The world needs more of that."

"The world couldn't survive more of me," Drake chuckled darkly, letting her take the bottle from his hand and set it aside.

"To the Black Clad, then." She said, raising the wine. "Warriors to strike fear into the gods themselves." He locked eyes with her, but found no mockery there as she took a drink. "After the first day, the god of Sharn ran to his brothers and sisters in the sky. So scared were the Pantheon by his tales, that they'd only let one of the Blackclad walk the world at a time. It just didn't seem fair otherwise."

He found a smile tugging at his lips.

"Once that was decided," she began, taking on the exaggerated tone of a saga poet, "It took the gods themselves _six days_ to take them down. Every day, they stood their ground, and spat in the eyes of the Pantheon themselves."

"Forsooth." He chuckled, taking another swig of wine. He deepened his voice, speaking with false bravado. "Truly, milady. Thou doth understand me better than any hast done before."

"Truly!" she matched his tone. "A knight in shining armor! Hiding it under a coat of black and a scary face."

"Oh, come on…" The floodgates broke. He laughed, and she laughed with him. "My face isn't _that_ bad."

"No." she purred, running a fingertip lightly down his jawline. "It isn't."

He flinched back slightly from the contact. She dropped her hand to rest it on the stitches across his collarbone.

"Sorry." He muttered, standing and pacing away. "Still a bit jumpy."

"Five gold says I can make you forget for a while." She said calmly.

"What?"

"You're afraid of intimacy because of the girl trying to kill you." She muttered with a shrug. "But you hate admitting defeat more than anything. Five gold."

"Ten gold for one night?" he raised an eyebrow. "Seems a bit selfish. I could buy a small house for that."

"Well forgive me for being selfish." She muttered playfully, hooking her hands in his belt and pulling him toward the bed. "I told you I don't want for much, but you _are_ the most wanted man in the world."

.

…

…..

…

.

Drake trudged through the drifts, feeling the wind kick up and reveling in the cold. Six inches of snow had fallen the previous night, completely concealing the disturbances in the mountainous drift where he'd buried Gage.

Drake paused, contemplating that for a moment. With how deep he'd hidden the body, nobody would find Lord Gage until the spring. Not his most creative application of justice, but satisfying nonetheless. He'd been walking since the middle of the night, alone in his thoughts. It was past midday now, and he found himself pacing toward a pair of familiar brass gates.

Arriving at the gates of Roane's home, the guard waved him through without delay. He was ushered to a meeting room, more of a small amphitheater, where Roane was holding council. He entered quietly, taking a seat in the upper tier and waiting to be addressed. A couple minutes into the paperwork, Roane glanced up. Drake gave him a respectful nod.

"I think we'll conclude until tomorrow, gentlemen." Roane stood, gesturing to where the swordsman sat. "I need to speak with Sir Zeb."

The nobles filed out of the chamber in short order, leaving the two soldiers alone.

"This is a rare day, for you to willingly come into the council chamber." Roane smiled broadly.

"Politics irritate me." Drake returned the smile, pulling the mask off and scratching his head.

"Did you enjoy Jenn's company?"

Drake looked away. Roane laughed, the booming sound echoing through the massive chamber.

"Come now, lad." The old general's laughter faded. "You can't punish yourself forever. How was she?"

"She was good." Drake admitted with a chuckle, "Been a long time since I lost a bet."

"What?" the older man raised an eyebrow.

"She helped me forget for a bit." The young mercenary's tone became somber again.

"I hoped she would." Roane admitted. "Do you want me to hire her for the week?"

"No." the big man shook his head. "Once was enough."

"Good." Roane nodded. "She's expensive."

"Then she and I have something in common." The huge mercenary chuckled.

"We still haven't discussed your reward." Roane admitted. "Have you made up your mind?"

"I think so." He paused, feeling the weight of the words settle in his gut. "I need to meet with your best blacksmith. I need new armor, and a new sword. Also I need a tailor."

"What kind of armor are we talking about, here?" Roane raised an eyebrow. His tone made it clear he didn't like where this was headed.

"Full plate," Drake confirmed his suspicions. "And a hand-and-a-half longsword."

"You're going to join the Order of the Way?" the older man was incredulous. "Become a folk knight? Now? When the Free Cities are on the rise?"

"There are rumors spreading about me." Drake sighed. "The people know I'm here."

"How can that be?" Roane was shaking his head in disbelief. "We were so careful…"

"It doesn't matter." The swordsman stood, stretching his tired muscles. "I'm leaving as soon as the armor's done."

"But with you here, we could…"

"I've given enough to your cause, Roane." Drake's tone was solemn. "I need to get away from that damn siege. Every day people want to congratulate me on leading all my friends to their deaths. I'm losing my mind being cooped up in this city with it."

Roane's mouth opened to argue, but the words cut deep, and he closed it again.

"Besides…" the big man smirked, "Can you think of any better place for me to hide?"

Roane hadn't thought of that angle.

"That's…" he paused, "actually brilliant."

"Jenn put the idea in my head." Drake admitted. "Maybe I'll be able to sleep at night if I do this."

.

…

…..

…

.

In the week that had passed since then, Drake had become a fixture at the blacksmith's workshop. He was adamant about overseeing every stage of the creation of his new armor.

That armor was now carried discreetly in the saddlebags beside him, the oiled plates flawless and unsullied. His new tabard was in his pack, as well as the sword that would replace the one on his back.

"You're leaving, then?" the voice came from the shadow of a building. Swathed in heavy furs, Jenn sat on a wooden bench, nursing a bottle of wine.

"Lady Jenn." He said, bowing deeply as he led his horse toward the gates.

"I just heard rumor that Lord Gage hasn't been seen in a week." She called after him. "Someone says they saw him walking in the middle of the night with a massive man in black. The night I told you my story, oddly enough."

He scratched his head, dismounting and walking over to sit beside her.

"That _is_ odd. I don't know anything about anyone being buried alive under the snow, though." He said, feigning innocence. "I've been at the blacksmith, commissioning my new suit of armor."

"Seems like a healthy man might be able to dig himself out," she pointed out.

"Yeah," he nodded, pantomiming breaking a stick over his knee. "Any killer worth his reputation would probably break his limbs first, though."

"Would they?" she scooted closer.

"Just my professional opinion," he shrugged. "The killer probably carved the name _Alla_ into his chest too, or something. Seems like something a crazy murderer would do."

"Thank you," she said, resting her head on his shoulder and letting her eyes drift shut contentedly.

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked. "I didn't kill him. I'm just telling you how I'd have gone abou..."

Her lips met his in a chaste peck, and the words died in his throat.

"Thank you." She repeated.

"You're welcome." He smiled to her.

"I'll spread the word." She said simply. "That the notorious Drake isn't the monster the church says he is. He's got a heart."

"Don't." he said, without any anger. "Spread the word about the Blackclad. Tell everyone what actually happened." He paused. "Then tell everyone Drake headed west. That should draw them off my trail for a short time, at least."

.

…

…..

…

.

After two days of trekking through the snow, Drake and Bertellus found the horizon interrupted by the massive spires of the Citadel of the Way. A few scattered buildings were buried in the snow by the gate.

Several sets of hoofprints converged into a path, leading to a huge wooden building just outside the wall. He dismounted and led Bertellus by the reins, toward the massive stable. There were dozens of horses of every kind, including breeds Drake had never seen before. Braziers blazed in the corners of the building, warming it against the bitter cold.

A white-haired old man approached, staring up at Drake and beckoning impatiently. As he made to remove the saddlebags, the elderly man swatted his hand away, beckoning for the reins again.

"Take care of him." the big man said sternly, handing them to him. "He's a friend."

The old stable master nodded sagely, handing Drake the torch and leading Bertellus away without a word.

He strode out into the cobbled courtyard and toward the massive gates of the citadel. It was colossal, easily ten times the size of the fort the Blackclad had held.

Swords were embedded in the stone of the courtyard. Hundreds of them, each driven several feet into cobbled floor before the main gate. He strode among the forest of blades. Some were of impossibly old design, rusted until they were almost unrecognizable. Some looked like they'd been placed there only hours before. The stone wasn't cracked, seeming to fuse with the blades. Here and there he saw the telltale mark of a blade removed, but the standing blades outnumbered them at least tenfold.

He paused at one of the marks, noticing an inscription in the stone beside it.

_Sir Naral, the Shield of Night_

He moved to another, and another. Every one of the removed blades had a name and title etched into the stone beside it.

He kept wandering, admiring the various swords and their absent brothers until he found himself standing before a pair of massive wooden gates. The doors were engraved with golden filigree, with fine script decorating every inch.

A blank plaque of age-darkened metal was embedded in the stone beside the gate, and he raised the torch to examine it. Nothing. The tarnished metal was completely smooth.

He hammered his fist onto the gate three times, raising his voice to shout over the wall.

"My name is Zeb!" he roared. "I seek entry!"

Nothing happened.

He was about to turn away, when a dull glow began to pulse from the metal plaque. The light intensified, splitting into multiple points, which then swirled into tightly-written cursive script. The glow faded, leaving the words perfectly engraved into the metal. Drake raised the torch.

.

_I set aside my life, for those who live in hardship. _

_I set aside my pride, my earthly desires, and my family._

_I will be the blade that keeps the innocent safe in the night._

_I will be their stalwart shield. Be it beast or man, I will fear no enemy. _

_I will seek no personal gain. Honest in all things, and temperate in my wrath._

_I will take no payment for my deeds. To serve the innocent is its own reward._

_I shall travel the world, righting that which is wrong wherever it is found._

_I shall let no one in need go unaided, and no evil go unanswered._

_In the Lady's name, I swear this oath on my very soul._

.

He studied the words, reading them several times over in his head and feeling a thrill of anticipation light in his heart. The thrill turned to alarm, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The engraving was changing.

The words etched into the stone began to blur at the edges, the outer edge of the inscription rippling and filling in. He watched, fascinated, as the words slowly faded inward, until only two remained, glowing lightly from within.

.

_Be_

_Honest_

.

"My name is Drake." He said softly, closing his eyes and resting his head upon the cold metal of the plaque. "I am a swordsman. I am a mercenary. I seek admission to the Order of the Way."

Nothing happened.

"I am not a good man." He admitted. "A few days ago I broke a man's limbs and buried him alive. I have murdered. I have stolen. I have fought wars and killed hundreds just to spite those whom I hate. I have let friends die and brought a painful end to men who did and didn't deserve it. I have hunted men, and I have been hunted. I have killed for money, I have killed for revenge, and I have killed purely to kill."

The two words pulsed again.

"I have reveled in my own rage and strength. I have survived more than any man has a right to. I have followed my earthly desires to whatever end they lead me."

He gazed up at the massive gate.

"Rage isn't enough, anymore. I need to do something with myself. I need _purpose_." He admitted, his hands clenching into fists. "I can't just keep running. I feel…"

He paused, considering his words. He thought he heard the ghost of movement in the shadowy edges of the courtyard, and his voice trailed down to a whisper as he tracked the sound.

"I feel empty."

Whatever had made the sound was gone, and he glanced back to the engraving. The two remaining words had faded, leaving behind nothing but the smooth metal it had originally been. He took a few steps back. The gate still stood, impassable as before.

After what felt like hours of waiting, he turned from the gate. His shoulders slumped, defeat settling over them like a mantle. He'd get Bertellus back and head south, toward the coast. With his remaining coin, he could probably find a village to wait out the winter in.

He was so consumed by his thoughts that he didn't notice the symbol scrawled into the snow until he stepped onto it. A circle of runes blazed into being around him, and he was slammed to the ground, the weight of his gear increasing exponentially to hold him in place.

"We got him, boys!" a snide voice called from the edge of the courtyard. "That bounty's ours."

Faces appeared, lit by the glow of the runes, surrounding him and laughing. Some twenty bounty hunters clustered around him, each smiling maliciously at how helpless he was.

"Good call on that holding spell, Tor." The leader grinned. "It was worth every penny. Let's put him down, his head is worth enough. No point in letting him slip away."

"Agreed." Another voice spoke with a smile. "Half a million crowns is more than enough."

_"I need purpose."_ The one called Tor sneered, drawing a dagger and holding it to the bound swordsman's throat. "_I feel empty_. How about we fill you full of blades and see how that works?"

The men laughed, and Drake let the rage take him for the first time since the siege. He roared his anger, letting his power sweep out to break the spell. He rose, his massive hands wrapping around the knife-wielder's head and breaking his neck with a twist. His sword was in his hands as they came at him.

The first one stabbed a thin blade toward his chest. He swayed to the side and cannoned a gauntleted fist into the man's chest, pulping his ribs and hurling him into the advancing hunters. A second hunter slashed a saber for his neck, he hacked the man's legs from under him with a two-handed swing, before bringing a knee down onto the man's throat to end him.

"Why do bounty hunters all make the same mistake?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and addressing none of them in particular. They surrounded him, hesitating at his words. His voice was colder than the winter air. "Thinking a fight with _me_ is one they're going to walk away from."

He snarled, charging the ring of hunters and slamming his sword down through the shoulder of a man with an axe. Another brought a pair of daggers in a pincer toward his ribs and he spun behind the man, wrapping a vice-like arm around his neck and snapping it with a brutal wrench.

He found himself hating them as his sword hammered through the leader's guard to cave his ribs in. Oss could _shit_ a better parry than that. Another swung clumsily at him, earning the massive blade of Drake's sword to his gut. Bryce could have dodged that swing in his sleep.

He became a whirlwind of blade and fist, an echo of his last moments with Oss, and his vision blurred. The bounty hunters surrounding him were replaced with the gleaming armored forms of the Templars. He felt the rage boiling in his veins and let it take him. It filled his limbs with strength, and his mind with fury.

The battle was over in moments, and all that remained of the twenty bounty hunters were the body parts strewn about the courtyard and the blood coating his blade.

"Hold!"

Ranks of armored knights, each with heraldry and oath parchments adorning their armor, stood in a circle around him, just outside the ring of dismembered corpses. Torches blazed and swords gleamed in their hands. They towered over him, eyes burning with a righteous power that seemed to bore into his soul. He fought the urge to charge. His blood was still up, and the rage was an inferno in his veins.

"What will you do now, _mercenary_?" a voice boomed from one of the knights. "What will this soulless killer do, now that he sees his true foe?"

_Soulless?_ It took all the control he had to keep from charging the speaker. He ground his teeth against the rage brimming in his heart. He wanted to bury his blade in the man's chest and see that self-righteous fire die in his eyes. His headache intensified, becoming two migraine-bright points of pain behind his eyes.

"WHAT WILL YOU DO?!" the knight's unearthly voice boomed in his mind.

He reversed his grip on the blade, hands shaking with the effort of it. Every fiber of his being wanted to kill; to rend and tear until he lost himself to it, until he couldn't remember the faces of the Blackclad anymore. It felt like someone was reaching into his mind and throwing dry timbers onto the flames. The rage roared in his veins, a terrible siren song, promising an end to the pain. With a monumental effort, he dropped to one knee, slamming the massive blade's point down into the stone and resting his forehead on the crosspiece.

"I set aside my life…" he began the oath. As he spoke, the bodies around him vanished into swirls of mist, along with the blood on his blade. He gritted his teeth after finishing the second verse, hissing the third through them. After the fourth verse, the Knights disappeared. He was alone in the courtyard again, and he ground his way through another verse. Each one was more difficult than the last, and he was shaking with rage by the sixth. Three left, and his vision was so fogged by red that he could barely remember the words. The night he'd sat and read the Quartermaster's notes appeared in his mind, vivid and potent. He fought against the yawning chasm of loss the memory brought, speaking another verse.

Bryce's laugh sounded in his ears, and he felt Rose's hand on his shoulder. He felt Oss slam back to back with him at the end. He felt the blades and bolts punching into them, and the wound across his collarbones was like fire on his soul. He snarled the last verse, and all the rage and memory vanished as soon as the last word left his lips. He was himself again. The pain in his head faded to its normal level and he fell to the cold stone of the courtyard, drawing in a shuddering breath and savoring the simple feeling of the cold winter air filling his lungs. He stood, attempting to pull his sword free. The massive blade was fused to the stone, just like all the others. It wouldn't budge.

A sound drew his eyes to the Citadel.

The gate was open. An armored knight stood there, holding a blazing torch. The knight nodded once, and beckoned him inside.


End file.
